Vegas II: Revenge of the Vegas
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: It's been a year since the events of Vegas. Ryan and Taylor's wedding is two weeks away. Can they survive the insanity?
1. Day 1

_I just couldn't let it go._

_So now I'm calling this my Vegas-verse, like my Chino-verse. Again, it's all in first person, switching between Ryan and Taylor._

_Also, this one has a different vibe from the first (probably because I've started out with an actual plot this time. Complete with plot holes, I'm sure, but I'm choosing to ignore that). And the title (if it's not obvious where it comes from) will be explained a little later._

_Now, because I'm incredibly nervous posting this, go read. And enjoy. And review._

* * *

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"_Please_?"

"_No_."

"C'mon!"

"For the love of God, Seth. No."

There's an angry huff as he folds his arms and flops back into the sofa, but he doesn't say anything else. _Thank God. _I don't know how much more of his whining I can take.

Seriously, the boy hasn't shut up since this morning – since he first brought up the whole bachelor party idea. I mean, he'd said something back when I first got engaged, but it's been almost a year, and no mention of it. Then this morning he hits me with the idea of going down to Vegas.

Really? _Vegas_?

When had Vegas _ever_ been a good idea for us? The last time we went we ended up in jail, and I almost broke up with Taylor. And I told him, back when I first got engaged, back when he first mentioned a bachelor party, that I didn't want one. I don't want one in Vegas, I don't want one here, I don't want one anywhere.

Good Lord, I sound like a Dr. Seuss book.

But for some reason, Seth is really hooked on this bachelor party idea, and I can't seem to shake him. I'm almost tempted to give in, except I can't. And that's not because of pride or anything, I just don't have the _time_ for a bachelor party. See, when Taylor set the date – and yes, I mean Taylor alone, because I have almost nothing to do with this wedding – she didn't know that I was going to get a major project the month before.

This woman – Ms. Casetti – hired us to design and build her new house, and Mr. Branson assigned it to me. We had no idea at the time that the woman was such a raging bitch, the design process alone would take up the month until my wedding.

And if I don't convince the woman to agree to our design in two weeks, I'm not going to be able to make the honeymoon.

Sure, I can take off a day for the wedding, but I can't take off for the two week long '_sexcapades'_ – as Taylor calls it – after that. And we already have the tickets and the room booked in Greece. But this Casetti woman – for all of her venom and complaints – has decided that I'm her man for the job, so if I leave for said two weeks, she'll drop her account with us.

Branson won't be so happy.

So now I have to deal with Taylor's endless rants about wedding plans that I have no control or say over, Seth's endless whining about wanting to throw me a bachelor party that I don't want, and to top it all off, this Casetti woman, who, by the way, I spent six hours arguing with about the number of outlets she can have in a room. Seriously. Six hours. She didn't seem to get that too many outlets usually equals fire hazard.

Oh, and have I mentioned I'm not getting laid?

Yeah, Taylor decided it would be 'romantic' if we didn't have sex again until our wedding night. Also? She decided this a month and a half ago. That's going to be two full months of not getting any.

The sad thing is, there used to be a time when I was fine not having sex for two months. Well, not back in Chino – back in Chino I got laid nearly every week because Trey, Arturo, Eddie and I decided partying was more fun than going to school. But in Newport I went months without it – especially those months spent with Marissa and Lindsay. With Sadie and Taylor I got laid a lot, and then in college, it was fairly regularly – what with all the desperate, drunken sorority girls and Taylor's tri-yearly '_one last time'_ visits. And since we got back together after college? Constant sex.

But now? Good God.

I thought it had been hard – being in love with a girl and not getting to sleep with her. It had been horrible when I was dating Marissa. I was in love with the girl and she loved me, and it had been really hard not to go for it.

But with Taylor? Not only do I love her, not only am I not having sex with her, but I have to _remember what it was like_ to have sex with her. And I have to sleep in the same bed with her. With Taylor it's damn near impossible to keep off her. It's incredibly... _frustrating_.

"How about _one_ stripper?"

"Seth, shut the fuck up."

* * *

"Taylor?"

"Hmm?" I hum, not looking up from the receipts in front of me. Food orders, DJ, reception hall…

"We're not going to San Diego to talk to your dad, are we?"

I close my eyes for a second before looking up at Summer, hands on her hips, stomach trying to fight its way out of her shirt. In one of the fists planted on her hip she has a paper, and I can see it's my Mapquested directions. Not to San Diego, like I told her, but to Vegas. I sigh and put down my pen. "No, we're not."

"Ok, why did you lie?" She still looks angry – although, to be honest, she always looks angry nowadays.

"Because I didn't want you telling Ryan and Seth we were going to Vegas." When she quirks an eyebrow, I sigh again. "Look, I have… something to take care of in Vegas, and I don't want anyone to know what it is. So I made up the thing about wanting to convince my dad to come to the wedding, and he lives in San Diego…"

"Uh huh," she interrupts, pressing her hand into her back as she sits down. "Wanna tell _me_ why you're taking a pregnant chick to Vegas?" I bite my lip and shake my head. She can't know yet, cause then she might stop me.

"Look, I promise, when we get there, I'll tell you. But for right now, you just have to know that it's important."

She regards me for a few minutes, and really, I'm worried she's going to refuse. Ever since Seth knocked her up, she's been taking less and less crap from people – and considering how she was _before_ she was pregnant? That's saying something. But finally she leans back, resting a hand on her protruding stomach, and mutters "fine."

Wow. She didn't even try and cut me – like that time Seth tried to take her chicken nuggets? She'd grabbed that steak knife so fast he'd screamed like a little girl before running into the bedroom.

* * *

"Hello Summer! You look radiant…"

I roll my eyes at Seth's attempt to get on his wife's good side. Especially because it doesn't work, and she mutters something about _stupid Seth _and his _stupid sperm_. She's gotten slightly cranky since she got pregnant. But I ignore that couple and smile at my fiancée, who smiles back and moves past her Maid of Honor to throw her arms around me.

I hate when she hugs me now.

Especially because she's one of those huggers – you know the type. The ones that hug you so tight and hang on for so long? Which never used to be a problem, until she stopped letting me strip her naked and have my way with her. And right now her hot little body is pressed up tight against me, and I go to my happy place so I don't react. Oh – my happy place is talking to Ms. Casetti about light fixtures. That always turns me off.

"Hey baby," she murmurs as she pulls away, and I don't break my smile.

"Hey." Ok, well, my pretending like nothing is wrong _was_ going well until I spoke, and I'm quite sure she can hear how low my voice is. And I'm definitely sure when her eyes widen before she smirks at me. She's enjoying this. Goddamnit.

"Everything ok?" she asks innocently, trailing a hand down my chest, and my entire body tightens.

"_What_?" Seth's outraged voice cuts off whatever I'd been about to say, and we both look to the dark-haired couple next to us. Summer's rolling her eyes and Seth is looking indignant, mouth hanging open, eyes fix accusingly on me.

"What?" I mirror his previous question, except I sound confused, whereas he'd sounded irritated.

"_They_ get to go to Vegas!" he accuses, not once looking at Taylor or Summer. He keeps his eyes focused on me, silently asking _if they get to go, why can't we?_ I'm about to start one of my familiar rebuttals when his words actually hit me.

"Wait. You're going to Vegas?" It's my turn to look accusing as I shift my focus to Taylor, who retracts her hand from my chest, looking guilty. "You said you were going to San Diego."

"Oops?"

"_Oops?_"

"Well, I told you we were going to San Diego, because I know how much you hate Vegas…" she offers, trying to give me that innocent smile that normally makes me do whatever she wants. And right now, she wants me not to be angry.

"Can you blame me for hating it?" I settle for broody instead of angry, putting on my sulky face and walking into the kitchen. She trails after me while Seth and Summer stay in the living area to have their own argument. "And what can Summer do in Vegas? Go drinking? Club hopping? Strip clubs?"

"I already know what we're doing in Vegas," she counters, crossing her arms over her chest, "and no, I'm not going to tell you what it is. Now stop being broody."

"No." I shoot back stubbornly, yanking the refrigerator door open.

"Ryan, I'm going to Vegas, there's nothing you can do about it, so stop brooding."

"Or what?" I turn to look at her, water bottle in hand, "you'll stop having sex with me? Oh wait," I let out a sarcastic laugh, "you've already done that."

* * *

"Oh my God," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose to relieve the pressure building in my head. "You're acting like a five year old."

"No I'm not," he mutters defensively, but I see the way his shoulders tense up - he knows I'm right.

"Ryan, I let you go to Vegas," I remind him, and he looks uncomfortable. "I let you go to Vegas, where you almost slept with a stripper, got a tattoo, and got arrested. You owe me for still agreeing to marry your sorry ass."

"Fine."

I let him have his righteous anger and turn to grab the phone so I can order take-out. Summer'd been complaining the entire way over that she was hungry. I call in the order and hang up, turning to put the phone back on the hook, and I find Ryan staring at my ass. He doesn't even notice that I've stopped talking to the woman on the phone, he just continues staring.

_Really_? Sometimes I wonder how he got so horny. Was he born like this, or was it some product of his upbringing? I'm completely ignoring the fact that my sex drive rivals his.

And it bothers me that he thinks I'm not affected by this no sex rule. I am. Like right now? He's got his broody face on, and he keeps running his hand through his hair and mussing it up, and all I want to do is jump him and mount him right here in the kitchen, in front of Seth and Summer. But I'm not going to, because I can control myself.

I'm also never going to _tell_ him that I'm having a hard time with all the non-fucking we're doing, because he'll just use it against me.

He can be very persuasive when he gets inspired.

* * *

Food distracts me from my Taylor-based issues, and I actually relax as we eat. Actually, hearing Seth and Summer bicker and snipe at each other makes me feel better about Taylor and me. At least we don't fight all the time – although any time we _do_ fight, the make-up sex is fantastic. And there I go thinking about sex again.

Well, I guess I should be glad she'll be gone for a while. She didn't say how long she'd be in Vegas, but I'm assuming if she's using my trip last year as an excuse, it'll be about a week. And then when she gets back, hopefully there'll be so much going on – with work and the wedding details – I won't have time to think about sex.

Stop thinking about sex.

Sex.

Crap. Ok, change the subject.

Soccer.

Brazil's won the most World Cups – a total of five.

Sex with Taylor.

Italy has four wins.

1934, 1938, 1982, 2006.

Taylor naked. Bent over the table.

The next World Cup is...

"Come on, Seth," Summer groans, getting up. It's only then that I realize everyone's done eating, and it's getting late. Well, it's getting late for _Summer_, who's started to go to bed around seven every night. The funniest thing about _that_ little pregnancy quirk is that she makes Seth go to bed with her, because she needs someone next to her before she falls asleep.

"Ok, be ready at ten tomorrow," Taylor's saying as she walks them to the door. "I'll come pick you up, ok?" She and Summer keep talking, but my eyes drift down to her ass. She has a great ass. I remember the night I first realized I was attracted to her – I'd seen her in that red dress that made her ass look fantastic, and I remember being hooked as she walked away from me, out to the dance floor. I danced for that ass. I _hate_ dancing. It's weird to think that if she hadn't worn that fantastic dress, if she hadn't asked me to dance, we may have never gotten together. I wouldn't be marrying her, I wouldn't be so fantastically in love with her.

"Just take a cold shower, ok?"

My head snaps up to find her rolling her eyes at me. Seth and Summer are gone – when did that happen? "Or you could fuck me," I offer, not all that seriously, because I know she won't. But I'm going for Seth-level persistence here, hoping that maybe if I bug her enough, she'll fuck me out of sheer desperation for me to shut up.

"Or you could take a cold shower," she moves past me, voice never changing from bored indifference.

Looks like it's a cold shower and my hand tonight. Oh boy.

_

* * *

_

Good? Bad? Crack-tastic?

_Review._


	2. Day 2

_Ok, this was a really quick update, but I'm chalking that up to the fact that I've had such a craptacular day, I need the distraction of Vegas._

_Um… this is basically filler, because the plot kicks in next chapter. So I hope you all enjoy the plotless wonder that is Day Two!_

_Music: 'Banquet' by Bloc Party, 'Dreaming of You' by The Coral, 'Tongue' by Bell X1, and others that I'll pimp out in later chapters._

* * *

As I swim into consciousness, I can feel his heavy weight on top of me, pressing me down into the mattress as he plants light kisses along my jaw line. I love when he wakes me up like this – it's so much better than my alarm clock.

He must notice that I'm awake now, even though my eyes aren't open, because he starts moving, the hand on my waist pushing my camisole upwards, rough fingers running over my skin and sending shivers through me. I don't open my eyes; instead I tilt my head back so he can have better access to that wonderful spot right below my ear that he knows drives me wild.

I love that he knows me so well – and not just physically, although that's great, too. But he knows all of my little quirks, all of my likes and dislikes, everything. And he loves me in spite of my craziness. I'm so glad I'm marrying him. And I can't wait for our wedding night, so I can have sex with him again.

Wait.

"Ryan!" My hands go to his shoulders and I shove hard enough that he flips onto his back.

"What the fuck?" He sits up and blinks at me – confused – and I can see his eyes are dilated, breath ragged, body tense. It seems to slowly dawn on him that I've regained my senses, and he shakes his head – I'm assuming to clear the fuzziness.

"Bad!" I get off the bed, because truthfully? I need to get away from him. He's got me all riled up, and being near him – on our bed, no less – isn't the best way to go about resisting him. "Bad Ryan!"

"I'm not a dog!" he argues, getting off the bed as well, and I can see the bulge in his sweatpants that he makes absolutely no effort to hide.

"Well, you're acting like one," I shoot back, hands on my hips, forcing my eyes up to his face.

"If you make any leg-humping references, I'm calling off the wedding," he threatens, running a hand over his face.

"I don't need to make the reference, because apparently you've already gotten the connection. Now, I have to take a shower – _alone_ – because I need to go pick up Summer." I leave and head to the bathroom, and behind me I can hear him clunking around – slamming drawers, throwing things about carelessly – as he gets ready for his day. He's such a baby sometimes.

* * *

By the time she gets out of the shower, I don't need my cold one anymore. I decided to screw the cold shower and just go with jacking off. I really thought my sneak attack this morning would work. It usually takes her longer to fully wake up, and I was hoping to get her worked up enough so that when she did, she wouldn't want - or be able - to stop.

She comes out of the bathroom fully dressed – which I'm thankful for, cause I don't need her walking around in a towel, or naked like she normally does. It seems she's gotten over her anger, and now she feels bad for me, because she shoots me an apologetic look. I shrug at her, lifting my coffee cup to my lips. It's not her fault I can't control myself. Although, maybe it is. If she weren't so fucking _hot_, I wouldn't be having this problem.

A knock on the door thankfully distracts me, and I let her collect her bags while I go to answer it.

"Kaitlin," I greet, and she shoves me aside to move past me. "Come on in," I monotone to her back, but she ignores that too.

"Kaitlin?" Taylor moves forward, looking confused. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," the girl shrugs, crossing her arms over her stomach, and it actually looks like something _is_ wrong. "I'm coming to Vegas with you."

I watch Taylor pause, not getting any less confused. "What?"

"I was at the Cohen's, and they got a call from Seth, and he whined about you and Summer going. I'm going with you." She says it like there's no room for argument, and it strikes me how much she's like Julie sometimes. Except, if you're going to get into a face-off of stubbornness, Taylor may not be the person to try and go up against. Summer either. Or Kirsten. Jesus, are _all_ the women in my life so forceful?

Yeah, pretty much.

To be honest, I'm a little terrified of all of them.

"Kaitlin," Taylor moves forward, looking sympathetic. "It's not that I don't _want_ you to go, but we're not doing anything bachelorette-partyish. It's kind of for business…"

"I don't care," Kaitlin shrugs. "I'm going."

Taylor pauses for a few seconds, before shrugging. "Alright, if you won't be too bored. I'm ready to go now, did you need to stop off somewhere and pack?"

"Nope," Kaitlin nods to the front door, to a bunch of luggage piled outside. Looks like she wasn't taking no for an answer.

"Ok," Taylor moves forward to grab her bags, but I pick them up first. She shoots a smile at me – which is totally the reason I did it. Screw chivalry. All I want is that smile. Somehow I manage to pick up Kaitlin's bags too, and despite feeling like a work horse, I get another smile, so it's all cool. I load the bags into the back of my Rover. I told her she could take it for her trip, because she speeds way too much in her own convertible. I'm worried she'll get herself killed on the interstate.

"Don't work yourself too hard," she murmurs, throwing her arms around me and kissing me soundly.

"I won't," I laugh when she pulls away, giving her my best smile. She doesn't know about Casetti or the fact that I may not be able to make our honeymoon.

I really, _really_, want to make it to our honeymoon.

* * *

I'm going to miss him. I hate leaving him for extended periods of time. Although, hopefully this whole thing won't take too long. I don't know how long it'll take to convince-

"Taylor, let's go," Kaitlin sighs impatiently, getting in the passenger's seat. "Let's go pick up the pregnant one and get ourselves to Vegas."

I have a feeling we'll be staying a little longer now that Kaitlin's going. But I roll my eyes, give him one last kiss on the cheek before getting into the driver's seat. "Is Justin ok with you disappearing for an unspecified amount of time?"

She grins at me wickedly. "He didn't protest too hard…" she trails off suggestively, and I giggle. Good for her.

* * *

"Because," I explain calmly, resisting the urge to put my head in my hands and scream. Or punch the wall. Whichever. "If we put a room that big on the ground level, the weight of the floors above it will cause the whole building to collapse."

She frowns at me, then at the drawing on the table in front of us, then back up at me. "Well, can't you just put support beams in or something?" I close my eyes, count to three, and open them again.

"That would be a lot of support beams. Or you could make it less floors…"

"No," Ms. Casetti cuts me off mid-sentence. "I have to have five floors."

"Ok, well, I get the basement, the attic, and the up and downstairs, but do you really need the fourth floor? It seems to serve no purpose except for excess bedrooms. Are you planning on running some sort of Bed and Breakfast?" I can't help the sarcasm in my voice, and she sends a glare my way. Luckily, she's not easily offended, and she seems to enjoy our little arguments. And I've got to hand it to her, though; she's a persistent old lady.

"Look, little man," she starts off, eyes narrowing, and seriously? _Little man?_ "I'm paying you to draw lines on a piece of paper, the least you could do is be respectful."

"No," I grit out, leaning both hands on the table and taking a deep breath, "you're paying me to design a structurally stable house so that _you_ don't get killed by electrical fires or collapsing levels. The least _you_ could do is listen to me when I tell you something isn't _physically_ possible." I regret it immediately, because she puts her hands on her hips, trying to draw herself up to her full height – which can't be more than five feet, really. And the image of it – of this tiny old woman looking at me so menacingly – _would_ be funny if she didn't have the ability to screw up my career. Branson likes me, but telling off a client won't make him think too favorably of me.

"Fine." I snap my head up to look at her, and she's quirking one eyebrow, watching me thoughtfully. Then she nods, never once breaking into a smile, "I like you."

"Thanks?" It's the first time in two weeks we've reached _some_ sort of middle ground, and I'm not going to lose it now.

"You're not like all the other spineless idiots around here," she nods again, and I really want to laugh. Have I mentioned we're in Newport right now? And I couldn't agree with her more. "You grow up around here?" she gestures out the window of the office building – our Newport branch. Thank God I don't work in this one full time.

"Kind of," I shrug, going over to my briefcase and pulling out some forms. "Moved here from Chino when I was sixteen. Now I'm in Berkeley." I hand her the papers, and she looks at me intently for a few seconds. Then – to my complete surprise – she signs them without even looking at them. They're the same bunch of contracts I've been trying to get her to sign for days.

She hands them back to me and grabs her purse. "I take it we're done here for today?" I can only nod, and she sniffs haughtily, turning to leave the room.

I shake my head and go to put the papers back in my briefcase when I freeze – because I _swear_ I heard her mutter something about '_wouldn't kick that out of bed'_ on her way out.

Fantastic.

* * *

"So," Kaitlin starts off, sounding bored. Which can't be good – that she's bored already. We've only been driving for an hour. "What's this I hear about you cutting Ryan off?"

I look to my left and glare at Summer, who shrugs indifferently. Kaitlin's taken the back seat so Summer can be more comfortable up front – and by 'more comfortable', I mean 'right in front of the air conditioning'. Then I sigh, and turn back to the road. "Just until our wedding night."

"Why? What did he do?"

"Nothing," I protest. "I just want our wedding night to be special."

"I still don't get it, though," she wrinkles up her nose and leans forward through the gap in the front seats. "I mean, you've made it really clear that you enjoy hitting that." I giggle at her phrasing and shake my head.

"I do enjoy it. And that's why I've cut him off. See," I take a deep breath before launching into my rant, "Ryan and I have done… well, _everything-_"

"Ew."

I ignore Summer's comment and continue on, "and your wedding night is supposed to be special, you know? So that's why I'm cutting him off. Because then we have all this build-up. If we kept on like we usually do, our wedding night wouldn't be any different from any other night. Does that make any sense?"

"I guess," she shrugs, sitting back in her seat. "Plus, it's gotta be making Ryan angry, which is _always_ funny."

"Angry Ryan isn't funny," Summer cuts in quietly, and I know she's talking about _angry high school Ryan_. Kaitlin shuts the hell up, and we all get really quiet. Way to kill all our happiness, Summer. I mean, I know she's pregnant, but does she have to go around depressing everyone?

"No," I try to make my voice light, "angry Ryan isn't _funny_." From the way Sumer groans, and Kaitlin's mouth twitches up into a smile, I know they've gotten it. And what can I say? Angry Ryan equals angry sex equals something that definitely isn't _funny_. Kaitlin starts talking again, this time about Seth and Summer's latest fight, and I tune out.

I kind of wish I'd known Ryan better in high school. I feel like there's this big gap in my knowledge of him, because he doesn't talk about it. Seth and Summer have told me all they can, but I wish I could know more. I remember high school – I'd been in my own little world.

I remember when he first came to Newport. I'd been talking to this faceless jock – I'm pretty sure he was trying to get me to screw him or something – and I remember Ryan walking by and thinking he was fucking _hot_. He'd given me this _look_, like he wanted to take me into the nearest classroom, bend me over a desk, and fuck me senseless. But then I learned that he was attached permanently to Marissa Cooper, and he became invisible, because I tried not to pay attention to anyone that was friends with Marissa. Who I hated, but that's beside the point. I feel bad about hating her, now. I didn't really _know_ her, and now that she's dead, I just feel like I'm being spiteful. But sometimes I feel like she'll always have a part of Ryan that I can't touch.

She has his innocence.

No, I'm not talking about virginity or anything like that. I mean she had his love when he wasn't jaded by life. She had him when he wasn't fully formed – when he was raw. She got to have him when he was discovering that life wasn't so bad – that there were good people in the world. And she'll always get to be the first girl he loved.

I know it's not fair – comparing myself to her. I'm _not_ her. I'm not even remotely _like_ her, except for the fact that we both grew up in the same town and wanted to be social chair. And that we both loved the same man. Although, that's not really true, either. She loved _Ryan Atwood, bad boy from Chino_. I love _Ryan Atwood_. There's a difference. He's grown up now. He's… _himself._ He's not the same, insecure boy he was in high school.

And it's not right, to be jealous of her. Because I know Ryan loves me, and I know that the fact that he loved Marissa doesn't make him love me any less, but I can't help it. She was a huge part of his life, and sometimes I wonder, if I died, would he be _that_ hurt? Would he grieve for me like he did for her? Would Summer? Would Seth?

Julie and Kaitlin certainly wouldn't. How can I replace their family? I know I can't, and it's not like I'm _trying_ to. But I can't help but think that if I died, no one would grieve for me like they did for Marissa. My own mother wouldn't.

And sometimes I wonder if I hadn't pushed him so hard, would we be together at all? Because, through our entire relationship, he's never really _fought_ for me. He's never made that much of an effort. Sure, he wrote that poem for me – which I still have, by the way, in a scrapbook I keep under the bed. And there was that little bear he bought me, and the time he hung on to my therapist's car to tell me how stupid I was being. But he hasn't made the effort that I have.

_I _was the one to seduce him. _I_ was the one to push our relationship. _I _was the one who suggested going to the same college – which, by the way, he freaked out over. And _I_ was the one to say '_hey, it's cool, I'll just go back to France', _even though I hadn't wanted to. I came back after college and told him we were getting back together. I told him _no_ when he wanted to break up with me. Sometimes it seems like I'm running this thing, and he's just along for the ride.

Sometimes I wonder if he only loves me because it's easy.

Sometimes I wonder if he loves me because _I'm_ easy. We've never really been together and _not_ been having sex.

He was willing to wait for Marissa for nearly two and a half years. He can't even go six weeks for me. Well, to be honest, it's going to be eight weeks before our wedding, but so far it's only been six, and he just won't let it drop.

I'm not going to tell Summer or Kaitlin that the real reason I've cut him off is because I want to see if he really loves _me,_ or if he just loves my body. I know it's stupid, and it's unfair to test him like this. He doesn't deserve it. But there's that little voice inside me – the one that sounds like my mother – and I have to do something to prove her wrong. Prove _it_ wrong, I mean. I'm trying to prove the voice wrong. My mother has nothing to do with this.

"Shouldn't you get in the right lane?" Summer points at the sign we're about to pass. "Our exit's coming up soon."

"Yeah, I was doing that," I try to smile and put on my blinker. Ok, I need to stop _thinking_ so much while I'm driving.

* * *

I come home to my scarily silent apartment. I forgot how much noise Taylor makes. Not that it's a bad thing, but she's usually around – talking, doing dishes, cooking, cleaning, talking, working on her computer, talking.

I just got back from Seth's. I'd gone there after work to play video games, and he hadn't been too happy when I left – he wanted to have an all night marathon in celebration of being '_free men'_. His phrase, not mine. But Seth doesn't really get that I have to get up for work tomorrow – he doesn't get that not everyone has a job where they can draw and work at their own pace.

Oh well, I should get some sleep. Hopefully Ms. Casetti will be easier to work with now, but you never know.

I just forgot how hard it was falling asleep alone.

_

* * *

_

Review, people! Make my day less headachy.


	3. Day 3

_Alright, chapter three, where the plot actually begins: Taylor's little mission and the origin of the title. Enjoy!_

_Nommez cette chanson: I got soul, but I'm not a soldier_

* * *

"Do I look ok?" I turn to the side, twisting my head to look at myself in the mirror.

"You look fine," Kaitlin whines, dropping forward to lean her forehead on the table. "You wanna tell us why you're extra-neurotic today?"

I bite my lip and shake my head _no_, smoothing down my dress one more time. I'm still not sure I look good enough, but if I change one more time, Summer might strangle me. "Ok," I decide suddenly, making Kaitlin's head rise off the table and Summer look up at me from her bowl of carrots dipped in ketchup. Her weird food cravings started in her second trimester, and it's only gotten worse. It's actually disgusting, some of the things she eats. "Ok, I'm going."

"If it weren't so hot out, I'd follow you," Summer mutters grumpily, not even bothering to move an inch on the chair. I haven't told them where I'm going – I can't. Not yet. Not until I know. "Hey Kaitlin…"

"No." I stop that thought immediately, glaring at Summer. "I'd just go to a strip joint and lose her, so don't even bother."

"I do have a thing for half naked guys," Kaitlin sighs, resting her chin on her hand.

"You're useless," Summer sighs, shifting in the chair and positioning the bowl more firmly on her stomach.

"Alright, well, I have to go," I take a deep breath before picking up my purse and heading out the door. "See you later!"

I pause when I get outside, squaring my shoulders and taking another deep breath.

It's mission time.

* * *

"You want what?"

I might kill her. I may actually kill the woman. Especially because she just stands there, hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised, face unmoving and determined. I _hate_ Newport women.

"I want a speakeasy," she repeats, like it's the most common request in the world.

"You want a _speakeasy_? Like… a prohibition type speakeasy?" She nods her head, and I resist the urge to bang mine against the wall. She wants a fucking _speakeasy_? Then it strikes me, and I look her dead in the eye, shoulders falling. "You want it hidden, don't you?"

She smiles – almost evilly – and nods, giving me a once over. "You're a smart boy."

Ok this thing where she hits on me? Starting to get a little creepy. It was creepy back when Kirsten used to make me go to parties, and all the Newpsies would hit on me, and it's still creepy now. Especially because Ms. Casetti's really _old_. At least some of the Newpsies back then were kind of hot – in a really medicated, plastic sort of way.

"Look, Ms. Casetti, a speakeasy? That'll take… weeks to work out all the details." Oh God. This can't be happening. I want – I _need_ – to go on my honeymoon. I _need_ to go. If I don't I may actually explode.

And I'm starting to think that Taylor's two week long _sexcapades_ would make getting fired worth it.

* * *

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

What if this doesn't work? That'll suck so bad.

It has to work. It just _has_ to. And I'm persistent enough, right? I mean, I convinced _Ryan Atwood_ to date me. Well, looking back, that hadn't been so hard – a few suggestive remarks, three kisses, and one red dress and he was putty in my hands.

But this has to work, for Ryan. I mean, the look on his face when he told me… he looked so lost. So this has to work.

I take a deep breath, check the apartment number with the address written on the slip of paper in my hand one more time, and knock. My heart starts beating wildly as I wait – for what seems like _forever_ in the Vegas heat, and what if this isn't the right apartment? What if he moved? What if this was all for nothing? I'm about to turn away when the door opens.

"Yeah?" He looks at me strangely, because – duh – he doesn't know who the hell I am. I put on my best smile and square my shoulders.

"Trey Atwood?"

* * *

"You know what they're doing, right?" Seth rants, punching the buttons on the controller harder than necessary. "This is them paying us back for my bachelor party."

"That's not what they're doing," I tell him, because I keep flashing back to Taylor's comment about having 'business' in Vegas. What the hell kind of business can she have in Vegas? As far as I know, her dad didn't move to Vegas. That was the original reason she gave me for going to San Diego – her father hadn't RSVP'd to our wedding, and Veronica told Taylor that her cousin had told her that her uncle told her that her dad didn't want to come. Or, I think that was the chain, I'm not sure. All I know is there was a lot of relatives in between Taylor and her dad, but the outcome was the same. He wasn't coming, because he didn't really acknowledge her as his daughter anymore.

"It's totally what they're doing," Seth's voice brings me back to the conversation, and I'm actually glad, because I was getting angry at Taylor's dad again. "It's… it's revenge." He gasps loudly, dropping the controller and turning to me, "it's Revenge of the Vegas!"

"I'm taking your Star Wars DVDs away," I tell him, punching a combination of buttons that kills his character.

"Don't you get it?" he continues, not even noticing that the game's over and he's dead. I sigh and turn to face him – I might as well hear out his rant, because at least he's not ranting about a bachelor party anymore. "This is a sign! Like… foreshadowing, man," his eyes go wide and he shakes his head.

"_How_ is that foreshadowing?"

"Because, man, it is! You've seen Revenge of the Sith-"

"Unfortunately."

"-and how does it end? With some guy getting all his limbs cut off and set on fire. See?"

"Not particularly."

"Ok, try and follow me here," he moves his hand in some sort of gesture I'm assuming is supposed to mean _follow_, and I lift one eyebrow. "Remember Vegas? Evil Vegas? Do you see where the removal of limbs and burning flesh come in?"

"I'm getting something to eat," I sigh, standing up and heading to the kitchen, trying to tune out Seth's rants about evil Sith Lords, true loves dying in childbirth, and his inevitable trip to the dark side – complete with a mask and cape.

* * *

"So who are you again?"

We're sitting in his living room, on the couches, and it's not a bad place. From what little Ryan's told me about his brother – and things I've picked up from Seth and Summer – I thought Trey's place would be… well, I figured it'd be some sort of crack den. But it's nice. It's not as nice as Ryan and my apartment, but there's nothing broken and dirty and full of crack. And Trey's not what I imagined, either. He's not sloppy and drugged up – he's actually clean, and ok, he's a little scruffy, but Ryan looks like that sometimes.

It's also a little scary how much they look alike. I mean, it's not completely the same, but they have nearly the same eyes – and not just the color. They have the same weary look, the jaded expression – the expression of someone who had to grow up _way_ too fast. And then there's the same blonde hair – although Trey's is a little shorter – the same strong jaw, the same muscled build. Trey's a little taller, and Ryan's a little more built, but if I didn't know they were brothers, I could definitely guess.

"I'm Taylor. Taylor Townsend." And when my name doesn't register with him, I know something must be wrong. I mean, he got our invitation, right? I remember writing it myself, and Ryan mailed them all out. I remember when he got Trey's reply.

It had been less than a week after we sent the invites out, and Ryan came into the bedroom and told me Trey had called and said he wasn't coming, because it was _too weird_. Ryan had looked so lost – he couldn't even meet my eyes when he told me. That's when I decided I had to do something. Hence the trip to Vegas, to convince Trey to attend the wedding.

"Um… do I know you from the casino?" He shifts uncomfortably, looking over his shoulder at a door. "I mean, I'm flattered and all, but I have a girlfriend…"

"What?" I shake my head, trying to clear it, because I don't think I'm hearing this right. "I'm Taylor… Ryan's fiancée?"

That stops him dead.

"Fiancée?"

"You didn't get our invitation?" What the hell? He shakes his head _no_, still looking completely lost. He had to have gotten our invite, otherwise why would he call, and-

Oh, I'm going to _kill_ Ryan.

He never even _sent_ the invitation to Trey. And then he _lied_ about Trey not coming.

"Ryan wants me to come to his wedding?" He chokes on the words, and I look up to see him… shocked, afraid, guilty, and it makes _me_ feel horrible. He just looks so sad.

"Yeah," I lie. "Your invitation must've gotten lost in the mail. When you didn't answer, I decided to come see why." Liar. "Ryan would've come himself, but he has to work."

_Liar_.

He looks up at me and swallows hard.

"How… um… how is he?"

* * *

I'm pissed off.

And horny, but that's almost a constant lately, so I barely notice it anymore.

But I'm definitely pissed, and _that_ I notice.

I kicked Seth out ten minutes ago. He'd pouted – a lot – but I figured kicking him out was a little less harsh than pounding the shit out of him. The whole _Revenge of the Vegas_ rant had turned into a rant on how the new trilogy couldn't compare to the original, which in turn had lead to a rant about how sequels were _never_ better than the originals (except, maybe, for _Empire Strikes Back _and _The Godfather, Part II_).

And this had made him get back to the subject of my bachelor party, which – according to him – was obviously not better than the original – his. At which point I'd gotten annoyed and punched him in the arm, and he seemed to think I was mad because he was calling my _wedding_ not as good as his. And then he'd started freaking the hell out, because he thought I thought that he meant that _Taylor_ was a sequel.

So there I was, with a giant fucking headache from that goddamn Casetti woman, with him ranting about how Taylor was like _Empire Strikes Back_ and _The Godfather, Part II_, and he even added _Toy Story 2_ in there, which apparently is better than the original.

Then I kicked him out.

Which brings me to now. And it strikes me that it's less than two weeks from my wedding. I should be happy – or at least freaking out and having panic attacks and trying to figure out the best way to flee the country. Instead? Instead I have a constant headache from my annoying brother and my eye keeps doing this twitching thing, which started around the time Ms. Casetti first uttered the word _speakeasy_.

Now, normally showers can get rid of most of my stress, but even turning the hot water on full blast isn't doing it. Although it is making me a little dizzy. Probably because I'm breathing in steam. Oh well. Maybe if I keep the hot water running long enough, I'll just pass out from lack of oxygen.

That'll be nice.

* * *

"Wow."

I smile, nodding slightly and looking down at the floor to give him some emotional space. He stares at the wall, looking stunned, overwhelmed and – even if he's trying not to show it – proud. I pull my cell phone out of my purse stealthily, and holy shit, I've been talking for nearly an hour and a half. But Trey had insisted I tell him everything, which had begun my discourse on Ryan's life. I left out some of the shadier bits – like my high school bitch mode and the fact that I stalked him in a groundhog costume – and some of the raunchier bits – my tri-yearly trips home to fuck him during college and my plans for a two-week long sex marathon.

But other than that, I've told him damn near everything. Ryan getting in touch with his mother in senior year, Marissa's death, his trip to the dark side – although I '_forgot'_ to tell him how bad it really was -, how Ryan and I got together, Frank coming back, Frank and Julie getting together, me leaving for France and Ryan for Berkeley, Kirsten having Sophie, Julie having Matthew, Ryan's college graduation – top ten percent of his class, thank you very much -, getting his job at Branson, Anderson & West, Seth's wedding, Ryan's proposal. Just… everything.

"Wow," he repeats, shaking his head slightly. "Who would've thought?" He seems to be talking to himself, voice low and gravelly, and it strikes me that beneath his shock – hell, beneath even the pride – is a little resentment. "I mean," he continues like he's forgotten that I'm actually here, "mom always said Ryan would go places, but when we were little, that just meant he'd end up being the manager at a Wal-Mart."

"You're not doing too bad yourself," I add, and he looks up at me, startled. Then the guilt comes back – Jesus, he looks exactly like Ryan – and he nods. "I mean, you've got a good job, a girlfriend, a nice apartment. You seem happy."

"I guess I am," he nods again, and _he looks so fucking much like Ryan_. It's the same guilt, the same belief that they don't _deserve_ to be happy. It makes me want to cry.

I hear the front door open and turn to see the girl that walks in. She stops, looks at me, looks at Trey, and then just looks confused. "Hey," he stands, and I follow him up. "Jess, this is Taylor – Townsend?" he looks at me for confirmation, and I nod. "Taylor, this is Jess."

"Hey," she gives me a weird look, moving towards the kitchen and dropping a duffel bag on the table. "You look familiar." I hear her silent question – _have I seen you near my boyfriend before?_ And to be honest, she looks familiar, too, but I can't…

"Jess Sathers?" She nods, and nope, looks like she doesn't remember me. Not many people do. Either they didn't care enough to notice me, or they've blocked high school me from their memories. I kind of hope Jess just didn't care enough. "We went to Harbor together."

"Oh." Still nothing, but she seems to accept the explanation. "What're you doing here?"

"She came to invite us – us?" he looks at me again, and I nod, "us to her and Ryan's wedding." That makes Jess stop dead.

"Ryan, as in your brother Ryan?" He nods, and they exchange this look I can't quite interpret. Which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside – it's like those looks Sandy and Kirsten or Seth and Summer give to each other. I'm sure Ryan and I do it, too. Then she turns to me, eying me down. "Wait, aren't you that bossy chick who got Marissa kicked out?"

Well crap.

"Um. Yes?"

"_And_ you stole her boyfriend?" she laughs slightly – looks like she wasn't too fond of Marissa. Maybe it has something to do with the whole almost getting her busted for drugs thing. Wait…

"You do know about Marissa right?" She shrugs, and crap, I don't want to explain this again. Once had been enough. "Marissa died. Like, seven years ago."

"OD?"

"Car crash." No need to go into the whole Volchok thing. She doesn't seem to care –why should she? They didn't really know each other. To be honest, I didn't really know Marissa either. I hated her, but I didn't know her.

Oh God.

I'm my mother.

* * *

"Hello?" I sigh into the phone. I'd been trying to sleep, and I don't even bother opening my eyes. I shouldn't have answered. It's either Seth or work. Neither of which is a good thing.

"Hey," she sighs back, sounding exhausted, and I open my eyes.

"Long day?" She groans, and I break into a smile.

"You have _no_ idea," she whines. "And as much as I want to tell you about it, I can't." Damn. She knows me too well. Either that, or she's psychic, and _saw_ that I was going to ask her what she did today.

"You can't?" I repeat, smiling wider. "Like, _you_ _don't_ _want to_ can't, or _you_ _can't remember_ can't?" I'm rewarded with her giggle, and I feel the muscles in my shoulders loosen a little.

"_I don't want to_ can't. It's a surprise."

"What is it?"

"Ok," she tries to sound stern, but I can tell she's trying not to laugh, "what part of '_it's a surprise'_ don't you get? The '_it's'_ or the '_surprise'_?"

"The '_it's_'." She sighs heavily – trying to sound frustrated. "Fine. Can you give me a hint? Like… is it a surprise like that time you tried to sign me up for yoga, or a surprise like the time you cleaned the apartment in the French maid outfit?"

She giggles again – she's so proud of herself – before answering. "Neither."

"Damn. I was hoping for a cheerleader uniform, or…"

"Ryan!" she scolds, sounding horrified. Or, at least _trying_ to sound horrified, because I know her better than that. She likes to _pretend_ she's not a complete freak. "We can do all that on our honeymoon," she amends, knowing I'm not buying her innocent routine.

"Have I mentioned I can't _wait_ until our honeymoon?" I groan at her, closing my eyes at the thought. Taylor, hotel in Greece, penthouse suite, private beach, _two weeks of nothing but sex_.

"I can't either," she makes her voice dip low, which sends a tingle straight through me. Fuck.

"Then let's _not_ wait," I suggest. Remember : Seth-like persistence. "When you get home…"

"No." Well, it was worth a shot. "But don't worry," she lowers her voice, almost to a whisper, and I wonder if she's in public, "on our wedding night, I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to see straight."

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

"Taylor," my voice cracks a bit, because _fucking great_, I'm so _fucking_ horny.

"Goodnight, Ryan," she breathes, which doesn't help my situation. For a minute I think she's _trying_ to make me all restless, but then it hits me: she wants it as much as I do. I mean, if she wanted to torture me, she would've stayed on the phone, but she didn't. She hung up. She wants it as much as I do.

Success.

_

* * *

_

So I was talking to someone (Ave, was that you? I can't remember) about the fact that no one tried to guess what Taylor was doing in Vegas. I mean, last story people were always trying to guess what was going to happen. So I give you this to ponder over:

_Ryan will have a surprise for Taylor when she gets back from Vegas. Clues: it's not a present, and the show vaguely hints at it. Go theory-wild. _


	4. Day 4

_I can't seem to stop updating this freakishly often. I hope you guys don't mind... Anyway, Ryan's little 'surprise' is in this chapter. Let's see if anyone guessed right._

_Oh my, it's all just so dramatic... (even if my music, currently, is not)._

_Music: thank you very much, Mr. Roboto, for helping me escape just when I needed to_

* * *

"Taylor."

I open my eyes to glaring sunlight and squint at Summer. She's sitting on the edge of my bed looking… well, not _angry_, per se, but a little annoyed. "Summer?" I turn and half sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven," she shifts, leaning back on one arm and letting the other rest on her stomach. "But I wanted to talk to you before you came out of your room, and… well, I wanted to talk to you without Kaitlin."

Uh oh. That can't be good. "What's up?"

"Are you ok?"

"Uh… yeah?" I'm not sure what she's talking about, because now she's looking worried. She sighs loudly, but doesn't get angry, which _really_ is weird. She must really be upset about something…

"Seriously." What? "What are we doing here?" She waves around her to motion at _Vegas_. "Are you in trouble? Like, money? Is that why you're here? I know this isn't about your dad at all, he's in San Diego, and I can't for the life of me think of anyone else you might know here. But I found this address in your purse," she throws the scrap of paper at me, completely unashamed of snooping through my stuff.

"Summer…" I sit up fully, because _crap_, how am I supposed to explain the whole Trey thing?

"If you're in trouble, I need you to tell me. Whatever it is, I can help. Or… or Ryan can help, or Sandy and Kirsten…"

"I'm not in trouble," I cut her off, because this could take a lot longer to get out if she's constantly interrupting me. "But I did come to see someone." I don't know how to tell her. What's the best way? Like, _hey, Summer, remember that guy who your best friend shot back in high school? The one that tried to rape her? Yeah, I came to invite him to the wedding._

Ok, when I put it like that, this was really a bad idea.

"Look, Townsend," her eyes harden a bit, becoming less worried for _me_ and more for _Ryan_, because she must think I'm cheating on him or something. Except why would I bring her and Kaitlin along if I were going to meet some ex-lover or something? "I'm pregnant, hot, hungry, and in absolutely no mood to deal with your shit, so tell me who the hell you came to see or I will cut you."

Alright, if she really wants to know.

"Trey."

There's a long pause, and then "_Trey_?" I nod, shifting away from her a little. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins rubbing her stomach soothingly. "Why?"

"Ok," I start, feeling the rant come up, but I can't stop it. "I know you were there for the… shooting thing back in high school, but when Ryan and I were making our guest list, we put him on it, because we thought it was only fair that if I was inviting my insane parents, and he was inviting Frank and Dawn, we should invite Trey too. Ryan didn't say anything about not wanting him there, so I made the invitation and Ryan put them out in the mail. Or, I _thought_ he put them all out in the mail, but I think he must've thrown Trey's out, because Trey said he never got one. Anyway, a week later Ryan comes in and tells me his brother called to say he wasn't coming, and _Summer_, he looked so depressed, and he couldn't look me in the eye – although now I'm thinking that's because he felt guilty for lying to me, but at that time I thought he was upset that Trey wasn't coming – so I decided to come down here and convince him, only to find out that he was never invited in the first place…"

"Taylor." She cuts me off, and the worry's back on her face. "You invited him?" I nod, because I had. What was I supposed to do? I'd already told him that we thought he was invited. I couldn't just _not_ invite him then. "Is that a good idea?"

Probably not.

* * *

"What?" I sigh into the phone, bringing my hand up to press my fingers to my forehead – trying to ward off a headache. "I'm at the San Francisco branch today, she knows that. We discussed it."

"Well, she says she has some last-minute revisions on the bathrooms or something like that," Mark whispers, almost like he's afraid, and I realize she must be there with him.

"Put her on the phone."

There's some slight rustling as the phone passes hands, and I hear her huff into the mouthpiece. "Where are you, Atwood?"

"San Francisco. We _talked_ about this, I told you-"

"Uh huh," she interrupts, voice bored, "I looked at the floor plans for the upstairs bathrooms, and I hate them."

"It's a bathroom." I grit out. "Not much you can do with the layout."

"I was thinking about one of those giant bathtubs. You know, the ones you can fit more than one person in?" Ok, ew?

"There isn't enough room for a giant bath." I sit down at my desk and rest my head against the cold glass.

Taylor hates my office. She says it's too 'modern' – all glass and steel and black leather and geometric shapes. The first time she came to visit me – on my first day – she'd ranted about how offices should be filled with dark woods and deep colors and 'cushiony fabrics'. I'm pretty sure she would've attempted to redecorate if I hadn't pushed her out the door and taken her to lunch. Branson had asked me later why I'd taken her out of there so quickly. Apparently he thought I was afraid all the guys would hit on her. Which I would've been, had she been anyone else.

Because let's face it – I may be insecure when it comes to that bastard ex-husband of hers, but… the way she looks at me? Sometimes, at the most random times I catch her watching me, like I'm the only person in the world. It made me nervous as hell at first, and it still makes my heart skip a bit, but I've gotten used to it.

"Well then _make_ room," Casetti's voice cuts coldly into my random thought tangent – which, by the way, I only started to do after I got together with Taylor.

"I'm not a wizard," I tell her, turning my head to speak into the phone while still keeping one temple against the cold desk. "I can't just _make_ room. If you want, I can take out one of the closets in the master bedroom…" Is it sad that I don't even need to look at the floor plans? I've gone over them so many times, I know them by heart. I _should_ be learning my vows. Or studying the Kama Sutra or something. Not that we haven't been through it already, but it wouldn't hurt to brush up for the honeymoon.

I don't plan on seeing much daylight those two weeks.

That's – of course – _if_ I get to go.

"I need my closets. Find some other way." Then she hangs up, and I resist the urge to throw my cell phone at the wall, just so the bitch can't call me anymore.

Although, I'm thinking she'd track me down anyway. Show up at my fucking apartment or something.

I need a drink.

* * *

"Hi, remember me?"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, because that's the way Summer greets him. It's cold and abrupt – almost rude – and she pushes her way past him into his apartment.

"Sorry," I mutter and follow her through, leaving a very confused Trey holding the door open.

"Um, you're dating Ryan's… brother, right?" I hear him stutter on the word _brother_, but he acknowledges it.

"Married," she flashes her left hand at him. "And knocked up." As if he couldn't see it for himself.

"I never would've guessed," he mutters, and I almost giggle – almost – until it hits me that that's what _Ryan_ would've said. Jesus, this is getting creepy. It's not that they're completely the same, but… Seth may be his chosen brother, but there's no denying that Trey's his real one. It makes me a little nauseous, though. Because this is how Ryan could've ended up, you know? Not that Trey's doing that bad with his life, but he's definitely not as successful as Ryan, or as well-adjusted.

"I'm gonna pretend like I didn't hear that," Summer continues on, scanning his apartment appraisingly. "Now, why don't you try again to make a good impression on me?"

I watch Trey's eyes go to the floor as Summer turns to stare him down, but in the few seconds before his gaze lowered, I saw all the guilt and regret and… relief? It's like he _wants_ to be confronted about everything.

"What d'you want me to say?" he murmurs. "That I'm sorry? That I'd do it all differently? That I'd be a perfect older brother and stay away from drugs and not carry around a gun and steal cars?" He lifts his gaze, finally determined, like he's accepted it all. Like he's going to take whatever comes next, because he deserves it. "Of course I would. I'd go back and do it all again, but I can't, so either you forgive me, or you don't." All three of us know he's not talking to Summer. "Although if I _was_ a perfect older brother, Ryan wouldn't've gotten arrested."

Summer glares but doesn't say anything. Because Ryan getting adopted by the Cohens does _not_ make up for Trey's spectacular mistakes. "Ok," she plants her hands on her hips, dark eyes narrowing as she takes him in. "Two things: one? Ryan never invited you to the wedding." Trey's head snaps towards me, and I wince. Thanks a bunch, Summer. "Two? You make _any_ sort of trouble at this wedding, and I will kill you."

"Ryan didn't invite me?" He hasn't looked back at Summer, and I shrug.

"Sorry?" He gives me a look – _sorry?_ – and I shrug again. "In my defense, Ryan didn't tell me he didn't invite you… Look, I'm sure he was just nervous about it, cause you guys haven't talked in a long time-"

"That's bullshit."

"Summer!" I scold, feeling my throat tighten, tears welling up in my eyes when Trey looks absolutely ruined.

"There's no need to sugarcoat this," she shoots back coldly, and I wonder when _Summer Roberts: best friend of Holly Fischer and Marissa Cooper_ made her reappearance. "Look, Trey, I know people can change, whatever, but you screwed up last time, got it? You screwed up, and you've never given me any reason to believe I can trust you. Which is why Ryan didn't invite you. But you're invited now, so do with it what you will."

Trey doesn't fight back as Summer puts her hand to her stomach and walks to the door. She's done, and I'm not sure it was such a good idea to bring her here. Because instead of making me feel better about my little slip-up, she's made me feel worse. Either Trey doesn't come to the wedding and Ryan never finds out and I feel like shit, or Trey _does_ come and _Ryan_ feels like shit and I feel like shit. Either way I lose.

Either way, Ryan loses.

I follow Summer to the door as Trey stands with his head ducked down and it's such a Ryan thing to do, it makes me want to hug him. But Summer's made it very clear that we're leaving, and she doesn't exactly approve of him.

"Oh," she stops at the door and turns to him again. He looks up – half in dread, half in acceptance. "Do you have any pudding?"

* * *

"Atwood?"

I glance up from my desk as Branson comes into my office, and my heart skips about eighteen beats as I shove the papers under a book. He doesn't notice, just walks over to the windows and looks out.

I hate those windows. It's the one thing about this office I don't like – because, unlike Taylor, I have no problem with the whole minimalist look my office has going. But I hate the windows, because they're floor to ceiling, spanning the entire back wall.

Thirty-two stories off the ground.

And they're the one thing Taylor _had_ liked about the place.

"Did you need something, sir?" He laughs at that – my first week on the job he insisted I call him Charles, but I can't quite manage that. So I call him sir. He always laughs, but he doesn't correct me. For some reason, I think he secretly likes being called _sir_. It makes him sound important. He likes sounding important.

"I just wanted to apologize for your client. Mrs. Casetti?"

"_Ms._," I stress, rolling my eyes. He laughs louder at that – catching on. He seems to find it amusing that a lot of our female clients tend to hit on me. I'm not bragging or anything, but they do. I didn't notice it at first, until one of the other guys pointed it out. They told me to stop hogging all the easy targets. I told them they could have the women. Most of them were married and bored. "But why are you apologizing, sir?"

He smiles at me, turning from the window. "We didn't think she would be this bad. And don't think I didn't see the paid time off slip you put in." I look up at him, meeting his eyes, and shrug.

"I'm not gonna leave the project half done," I assure him. Even if it's the last thing I want to say. But I can't – no matter how much I want to go on the honeymoon, no matter how much I hate Casetti – I _can't_ leave this project halfway through and jeopardize my career. Taylor will understand, right?

Right?

"I know you won't," he sighs, shaking his head and turning to stare out the window. "That's why I'm apologizing."

"I'm not sure I follow," I swivel in my chair slowly and focus my eyes on him, not the view.

"I had a lot of fun on my honeymoon," he says wistfully, smiling a bit. "But you're too… loyal to cut out on your job. I admire that – even if it's stupid."

"Sir?"

"You could take off. We have other architects."

"Ms. Casetti seems to have taken a liking to me," I hear my voice go dull, monotone.

"I see." He links his hands behind his back and stares out the window for a while, and I don't say anything else. Then he lowers his head, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before turning to me. "You're a stupid man, Ryan Atwood."

"I know."

He nods, smiling a little. "Well, as long as you realize it." He hesitates for a second before holding out his hand, and I shake it, a little confused. "You haven't made me regret hiring you, but don't make your fiancée regret marrying you. _Get the job done_." Then he nods one more time and leaves my office. Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Which is never a good thing.

Especially because I know exactly what he was talking about. If the Casetti project extends past the time frame, I have to decide. Do I go on my honeymoon – placating my wife but risking my job – or do I stay on – keeping my job but risking my wife? My only option is to get the plans cemented in place in two weeks. _Less_, my smartass brain kicks in. _Ten days._

I have ten days.

I swivel in my chair to face the window.

This is my game. It's like my own perverted version of _chicken_. I make myself stare out this window sometimes, just to see how long I can do it before my throat closes up and my heart freezes in my chest. It's my own personal torture device.

I grip the armrests and stare out.

* * *

"Where've you been?" I ask when Kaitlin walks in, throwing her purse on the couch.

Summer and I have been sitting in relative silence for the past hour, watching TV. It's weird. We've never had a fight – not a real one, at least – in the nearly seven years we've been friends. And we're not particularly _fighting_ right now, but there's a definite tension in the air that I can't describe. It's like she's… disappointed in me. Like I should just know better.

But how can I? No one tells me anything. The whole Trey deal? Seth and Summer won't talk about it much, and Ryan turns into stone when I ask. How am I supposed to make sensible decisions when I don't have all the information? That's not fair to ask of me. It was the same deal when Frank showed up. I pushed – I know I did. I pushed too much, because I had _no_ idea what Frank did to him when he was a kid. It was only later – when Frank admitted it to us himself – that I found out. If I'd known, I never would've made Ryan go see his father.

So right now, Summer's disappointed in me, and I'm disappointed in her. Because she's judging me – she's angry at me – even though she's never given me any reason to mistrust Trey the way she does. I can't read minds, you know.

"Gambling." Kaitlin pulls a wad of cash out of her purse with a grin, completely unaware of the thickness in the air. Although, maybe it's just me that feels it. "Anyone up for some taqitos?"

* * *

I lasted eighteen minutes, thirty-five seconds.

That's when my brain had started to shut down and I'd turned away from the windows. When it got working again, I pulled out the plans and stared down at them. I wanted to work on them – I did – but I couldn't, because I had to do my job. So I'd put those papers away and taken out Ms. Casetti's.

Thankfully, I'd only gotten a half hour into it when I was called to a site a few blocks away. The lead on the project was stuck in San Bernardino and couldn't sign off on a bunch of papers, so I made my way over there. To be honest, I'd been relieved to get away from my own stuff for a while. So now, after a dragging _hour_ signing contract after contract – that I had to personally read, because I didn't know what the hell I was signing to – I'm done. And it's after five, so I get to go home.

I want to scream when my cell rings.

"Hey Atwood," Chris breathes, sounding really stressed. "I heard Branson sent you to my site?"

"Yeah, I'm just leaving now," I reassure him, walking out towards my car. "Everything looks good. We're on schedule to meet our target."

"_Thank you_," he gushes, and I kinda feel bad for the guy – he gets really overwhelmed.

"Thank you," I repeat, because hey – the guy got me out of my office. I hang up and reach my car, when a kid catches my eye.

I feel like something hit me, because the breath's actually knocked out of me when I turn to look at him fully – sitting on a wall next to a payphone, wearing a hoodie, bike propped up next to him, looking lost and alone, looking like no kid ever should.

And to be honest, if I'd been anyone else, I wouldn't have given him a second glance. But I _know_ that look. It's the same one I used to have. It's the same one I still carry around with me, even if I hide it better now. All the sudden, air rushes into my lungs.

"Hey kid." He looks up at me, like he doesn't believe someone's talking to him. Like he doesn't believe someone _sees_ him. "Need some help?"

_

* * *

_

Review!


	5. Day 5

_Ok, so this is vaguely a filler chapter. But I decided to post it quickly (seems to be a pattern now). This one's dedicated to ORy, cause she's been having a tough time lately. I know she wanted... the other thing, but I'm nowhere near finishing that, so hopefully this can tide her over till then._

_Enjoy!_

_Music: if there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it, check out the hook while my DJ revolves it_

* * *

Shit.

Taylor's gonna kill me.

I know I say that a lot, like that time I spilled marinara sauce on the couch, but this is different.

Taylor is going to _kill_ me.

I steel myself, hand on the doorknob, before opening it. The light from hall cuts into the bedroom, and I'm almost hoping yesterday was a dream. That is, of course, until I see the kid in the bed, still asleep, and I know it's not. Because life hates me like that. I shut the door and go back out to the kitchen, grabbing the pot of coffee and pouring myself a cup. It's only 10, and I've already had three.

Taylor tried to get me stop drinking coffee once. She said I was too dependent, citing my need to have one when I wake up, when I do work, and generally any time I'm stressed out. And sometimes when I'm watching TV, I like to have a cup. And after dinner…

Anyway, she said I drank it too much, and I'm pretty sure she compared me to an alcoholic. So she took all the coffee out of the house, told the Cohens and Seth and Summer I wasn't allowed to have any, and she even went to my work and told them I wasn't allowed to drink it. Yeah, that hadn't turned out so well. I think she got so fed up with my complaining that she gave in. Fuck. Why am I thinking about coffee? I _should_ be focusing on my giant fucking mistake.

_Why_ would I take in a stray kid?

Well, I mean, I know _why_ in general. Just… seeing that kid sitting there, looking lost and angry… it was too familiar for my comfort. I'd just… acted. I hadn't thought it through before asking the kid if he needed help. I didn't think about where I'd put the kid. Or how Taylor would take the news.

But I couldn't just ignore him. He'd looked so lost, and when I asked him if he needed help, he'd said no with such… anger that I knew I had to do something. So I'd thought of myself at that age. If someone had asked if I needed help, I would've said no out of pride. But there was something I knew the kid couldn't turn down… Food.

I'm on my fourth cup of black coffee when he comes into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He pauses, blinking in the sunlight. "Hey," I manage awkwardly. Damnit. Sandy was so much better at this.

"Hey…" he starts. "Thanks for letting me sleep here last night, Ryan." I told him to call me Ryan, because Mr. Atwood sounded way too weird.

"Want some breakfast?" He tries not to look too eager, shrugging nonchalantly. I resist the urge to smile and pull down a box of cereal and two bowls. "You look like a cereal kind of guy," I guess, and he nods in confusion. I don't tell him I know that because _I'm_ a cereal guy.

We eat in relative silence – him because he's uncomfortable, and me because I don't talk a lot and I don't want to scare the kid. Plus, it gives me time to think about what the hell I'm supposed to do with him. When we're done, I pick up the bowls and put them in the sink.

"Ok, I'll give you the grand tour. You've seen the kitchen and the guest bedroom." He looks at me, confused, but I ignore that. "This is my room," I point to the closed door down the hall from the one he slept in, "there's the bathroom, that's a closet." I take him out of the hall and back to the kitchen, "and off the kitchen is the living room." Then I turn to him, giving him a once over. "I have to go to work, but do you think you could keep yourself entertained? I have a lot of video games," I wave vaguely at the TV, and his eyes go wide at the giant widescreen. I know that look. It's the _holy shit, I've landed in Oz_ look.

"You're… gonna let me stay here?" I shrug at him like it's nothing – the move planned and absolutely calculated down to the coordinated eyebrow lift of disinterest. His own eyebrows knit together, and he amends his question, looking down at the floor. "Alone?"

"Are you gonna case the apartment and run?" No need to sugarcoat this. I refuse to play with him. He shakes his head _no_, the move so sudden and forceful that I know he's not lying. "Are you gonna burn it down?" Another shake, slower this time, a little more unsure. "Are you gonna throw a huge crack party?" This time he pauses, and his eyes go from the floor to my face. Wait for it… there it is.

He smiles.

"Well, I might do that."

Atta boy. I clap him on the shoulder with a grin before heading to my room. "I'm gonna change, why don't you get acquainted with the TV?" He ducks his head over the giant smile and makes his way over to the couch. I watch him for a few seconds as he turns the TV on, obviously impressed by the expensive thing. I know that feeling too. Then I shake my head and go to change. It's gonna be a long day at work.

* * *

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" Trey asks wearily as I sit down at the table with a happy smile.

"Nope!" I infuse my voice with as much enthusiasm as I possibly can, to let him know how much his broodyness _isn't_ deterring me.

"He doesn't want me there." I watch him glance warily around him, relaxing a little when no one's watching him. Because he's talking to a patron while he's at work. But seriously? It's ten in the morning on a Thursday, so there's not too many people at the casino, and none at our table. But if it makes him feel better… I place some money on the table and he changes it out for chips, and we start to play.

"Sure he does," I continue the conversation as he doles out cards.

"He didn't even invite me," Trey's voice is monotone, but I sense a bit of resentment in there. And guilt. Good Lord, what is it with the Atwoods and guilt? It's like they have a timeshare on Guilt Island, and they're determined to take full advantage of it. "He hates me." I also catch the silent addition to that: _I deserve it_.

"He doesn't hate you." The boy looks up at me, startled, because my voice is dead certain. I meet his gaze squarely. Ryan doesn't hate his brother – he doesn't have to tell me that, I can read him well enough. He's _disappointed_ in Trey, he's _afraid _of Trey, he's _wary_ of Trey, but he doesn't _hate_ Trey. Ryan doesn't have the capacity for it. "Look, what happened? That's in the past."

"What do you know about what happened?" he grunts, flicking another card at me.

"That was eight years ago," I reassure him, flipping my cards over to reveal… twenty-three. I suck at gambling.

His half amused, half depressed laugh startles me into looking up. "You think this is about Marissa?" Ok, I was trying to avoid using her name – usually it doesn't get favorable reactions. "This is so much bigger than what happened with her."

"You mean your childhood?" I press, and he shrugs again.

"Our childhood, the shit with Marissa, disappearing for eight years. He never tried calling me, I never tried calling him. It's too late – there's too much… There's just too much."

"You know, even after all your childhood stuff, he was still willing to give you a chance." I frown slightly at my drink before taking a sip. "You blew it then," no reason to try and make him think otherwise. "Ryan's very forgiving. All you have to do is come to the wedding and _try_. Don't blow it this time. And don't try telling me he doesn't care about you," I hold up my hand in warning when I see his mouth open. "We both know that's bull." I'm right. We both know Ryan worries about _everyone_, no matter how much they've let him down. "And he's grown since you last saw him. He understands things now. He's not as impulsive, he's not as angry." I look at him appraisingly, and he's staring at me like I'm insane. Which I kinda am, but whatever. "And you've changed too. I didn't know you then, but the fact that you seem to _care_ about his well-being…" I let the sentence hang, and he shakes his head at me.

"No wonder he's marrying you." Oh my God! I want to ask him why he said that, because the little girl inside me wants to know – is it because I'm pretty? Because I'm good at reading people? "You probably talked so much he just gave in." Ok, now I may have to hurt him. But then he laughs a little, and I realize he's joking. Sort of.

I shrug, smiling back. "I tend to get my way."

"Fine, I'll come." When he beats me _again_ and takes my money _again_, he actually looks happy. "But if he gets angry that I came, you have to tell him it was your idea."

"Totally!" He gives me another weird look as I clap my hands together happily. "I can totally handle angry Ryan. I mean, I cut him off until our wedding night, but if I have to, I'll break that rule. He's usually much more accepting after he orgasms." Ok, now he's looking a little horrified. Damnit. I can never tell where the line is between information, and _too much_ information. I get off the stool and reach into my purse for the invitation I have stashed there. I hand it to him without another word and leave the casino.

My job here in Vegas is done.

* * *

"Cody?" I call the minute I open the door. I've had a fucking _long_ day at work – that Casetti woman is such a goddamn stubborn bitch – and I pull at my tie, kicking the door closed with my foot. He doesn't answer, but that's ok, because I hear the TV on and the familiar sounds of Grand Theft Auto playing. "Having fun?" I ask, stepping out into the living area, where Cody's sitting on the couch.

With Seth.

"Totally," Seth answers, but doesn't take his eyes off the screen.

"Tank!" Cody grins and Seth laughs and on the screen, one of the characters gets into an Army tank and starts crushing civilians with it.

"Uh… Seth?" My brother doesn't look up, but something in my voice makes Cody pause the game. "Can I talk to you in the kitchen?" Seth rolls his eyes but gets up. I give Cody a smile so he knows I'm not angry or anything before leading my brother into the kitchen area.

"What're you doing here?" I ask, glancing out to where Cody's unpaused the game and resumed crushing people.

"I was bored," he shrugs. "And we have some really weird stuff to eat at home, so I came to raid your kitchen." Then he smiles like an idiot, "and much to my surprise, I find a pre-Cohen mini-you sitting on the couch playing Mortal Kombat. He's even got the Atwood rage, cause he kicked the crap out of me and then he suggested we play GTA and are you sure this isn't like a _Back to the Future_ thing? Do you have a DeLorean I don't know about? Cause I swear, if he didn't call himself Cody, I'd think it was thirteen-year-old you."

He finally shuts up when he notices my glare. "I…" I can't really get the words out to explain the situation properly.

"Let me guess," Seth sighs dramatically. "You saw him on the street – getting beat up? or maybe yelled at by his parents? – and decided to take him in."

"He was sitting," I frown. Kind of a stupid thing to say, but really the only thing I can manage.

"Of course he was." Seth gives me this weird look. "Can I go back and play now? It's nice having an opponent who actually provides a challenge…"

"Hey…" I protest, but he grins at me, punches me in the arm, and heads back to the couch.

"Oh, and while you're in there," he calls over his shoulder, flopping back on the couch and rejoining the game, "could you make me a sandwich, mon frère? You know, mi casa, su casa?"

"Two different languages, Seth," I call back monotonously, but pull out the bread anyway. I hear him shout out some vague response, but I don't pay attention. He's just being Seth.

* * *

"So?" Summer asks the minute I open the door. She and Kaitlin are on the floor, eating some obnoxious creation that looks like it includes Cheetos, chocolate sauce, and bananas.

"I think he's gonna come," I smile, and she nods, a little warily. I know she's still not sure about Trey but she doesn't say anything. I think it's because she knows how important this is to me. That, or she doesn't have the energy to argue with me anymore.

"Ok, now that 'the mission' is done, can we go out and _do_ something?" Kaitlin whines.

"Pregnancy doesn't allow fun," Summer mutters darkly, and I can tell she's cursing Seth in her head. I feel almost bad for the boy. "But if you want, we can lay down, prop up our feet, listen to classical music, and gently rub our tummies." I hold back a laugh at the sarcasm in her voice. Kaitlin looks horrified.

"How about we just go out for a nice dinner?" I compromise. It'll get them both out of the hotel – and from the state of the room, it looks like they need it.

"Whatever," Kaitlin sighs, rolling her eyes as she helps Summer struggle to her feet.

"Can one of you guys pay, though?" I ask as they move toward their suitcases to change. "I kinda lost a lot of money trying to convince Trey to come to the wedding."

* * *

"Hey," I catch Seth's arm at the front door, and he turns to me. "Can you not tell Summer about this?" I jerk my head back toward the apartment where Cody's taking a shower before he goes to bed. Seth quirks an eyebrow at me. "I don't want her telling Taylor," I explain, somewhat lamely. Oh yeah, that sounds great: _hey, can you lie to your pregnant wife so she doesn't tell my fiancée that I took in a homeless kid?_

Fan_fucking_tastic.

"Yeah, sure," he shrugs, which… well, it makes me feel bad. He's so fucking loyal sometimes when he shouldn't be. He _shouldn't_ lie to his wife – technically, I shouldn't be _asking_ him to – but he's willing to do it for me.

"Thanks, I just… I haven't figured out how I'm gonna break this to her is all," I let go of his arm and he gives me his Seth-smile.

"It's cool. She's pregnant, so no matter what I do, I'll get in trouble." He opens the door, but hesitates, turning back to me. "What you're doing here…" Oh shit. This is what I've been waiting for. He's the first one to find out, it's only fitting he's the first one to give me the _what the hell are you doing?_ speech. Instead he gives me this _look_, shrugs, and gives a slight nod of approval before leaving.

I close the door behind him, and I can't really explain the feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's… I haven't felt this since… I don't know when the last time was, but it feels like… dread? Fear? And that's when it hits me – I _wanted_ Seth to tell me this was stupid. I _want_ it to be stupid and bad and wrong.

I want it to be _fixable_.

It's not that I don't want to help the kid – I do – but… I'm just not the guy to do it. I can barely handle getting married and having a real job. I'm just getting used to stability myself.

It's gonna be a long couple of weeks.

* * *

"This was nice," Summer decides after we leave the restaurant. It seems expensive food soothes the savage beast, because she's acting like normal Summer now. "The three of us should go out more often, without all the excess baggage." I giggle at her little term of endearment.

"I can't believe you just called your husband _baggage_," Kaitlin shakes her head, supressing a smile.

"Husband/baggage, pa_tat_o/patato," she waves her hand vaguely, face completely straight.

"Well, make sure you guys get up before noon tomorrow," I remind them. The hotel gives us until noon to get the hell out.

"How did we come all the way to Vegas, two weeks before your wedding, and _not_ do anything stupid and drunken and impulsive?" the younger girl whines a little.

"We gambled," I remind her, "plus, we risked the wrath of Summer, so there's that." Summer hits my arm with a mock scowl, but the food's still got her sedated, so it doesn't hurt. "But we need to get home, because I have a lot of stuff to do."

I haven't told Ryan when I'm coming home, because when we first came, I didn't know how long it would take to convince Trey. And now I think I'll just leave it as a surprise. That sounds like fun. Maybe, when I walk into the apartment I'll even shout _surprise!_

I like surprises.

* * *

_review!_


	6. Day 6

_Sufficiently crappy day, meet Vegas-verse. What's that sufficiently crappy day? You're turning around? Yeah, that's what I thought._

_I think you guys may kill me for this chapter… you'll see why in a little._

_Music: I'm in love with a strict machine_

* * *

There's knocking on the front door and I get up groggily. I don't have to go into work today until the afternoon – Ms. Casetti has some salon appointment in the morning – so I was planning on sleeping in for once. It's probably Seth, wanting to play video games with Cody. The two seemed to have bonded – most likely because they both have the mindsets of thirteen-year-olds.

I pad down the hall in bare feet, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I didn't get much last night – I was too busy worrying about my magnificent fuck up. I open the door.

"Sandy?"

"Hey, kiddo," he grins and moves past me into the apartment. "Kirsten made too much pasta salad last night, so I brought you some."

"Thanks." I follow him into the kitchen, where he puts the container in the fridge before turning back to me. Then he waits expectantly, and really, I may have to kill Seth. "He told you?"

"Yeah, he told me." There's that famous Sandy Cohen sympathetic shoulder pat, and I can't help but feel relieved. Sandy will make this better. "Are you sure about this?" he prods, catching my eyes before I have a chance to duck my head. Damn it, he knows me too well.

"No." There's no need to lie. I'm a horrible liar and Sandy most likely already knows exactly what I'm thinking. "I don't know why I did it…"

"Yes you do," he chuckles, pushing my shoulder and moving us toward the kitchen table. We sit and he folds his hands on the table top, leaning forward. "It's who you are." He doesn't need to make the connections between my situation and Cody's. We both know why I did it. But he's using my hero complex as the cover reason.

"But I don't know what I'm supposed to do with him, Sandy." I keep my voice low. The last thing I need is for Cody to overhear this, and… well, run away. It's what I did. It's what I know he'll do if he thinks he's gonna get put into the system. "I don't have the… money to take care of a kid." He gives me a look that says he knows what I mean – that _money_ is codeword for _ability_. He doesn't say anything, which makes my heart sink a little. I just want him to tell me how to make this better. "I don't… what am I gonna tell Taylor?"

Sandy sighs and reaches out to pat my hand. "I can't tell you what to do, kid. You're an adult – you have a job, you're getting married. This is your life; I can't tell you how to live it. You need to make this decision on your own. And Taylor? She loves you, she'll understand. And you know Kirsten and I are always here to support you, whatever you decide."

Ok, not exactly the answer I was looking for. I wanted a yes or no. I wanted him to fix this. He gets up to leave and I stand up with him.

"Thanks, Sandy." Crap. Ok, don't let him leave. "I'll see you and Kirsten later." No! Tell him to fix it! Stop him! But I don't and I walk him to the door and he goes.

I hate me.

* * *

"Come on!" Kaitlin whines, leaning back against the Range Rover and adjusting her giant sunglasses. I don't blame her for being impatient – the sun is particularly hot today and loading bags into the car in direct line of its rays makes it ten times worse.

"I'm trying," Summer shoots back, one hand on her belly, the other on her back as she comes out into the stifling heat. Kaitlin takes one look at the hand on her stomach and grimaces.

"If you pop the kid out here, I'm gone," she waves her hand vaguely around her. "I refuse to deal with nasty baby juice."

"Baby juice is sperm," I tell her distractedly, throwing a bag into the back. Kaitlin makes a horrified face at my comment and Summer rolls her eyes.

"Whatever," the younger girl amends, pulling open the back door. She gets in the car, leaving me and the pregnant chick to load up the rest of the bags. Which means I get to do it all by myself.

"She does know you're not due for another month, right?"

"She's just being Kaitlin," Summer grouses, leaning against the car to take some weight off her feet. "Why is it so _freaking_ hot?"

"Because it's June?" I supply helpfully, but she glares. "Sorry."

"I wish Cohen had the decency to knock me up at a good time, so I wouldn't have to be giving birth in the hottest month of the year. Bastard." I giggle and shut the hatch before helping her into the passenger's seat. Then I head around the car and get in the driver's side.

"See, this is why you should've made a plan." I tell her, not quite _helpfully_, because she's already pregnant, so it doesn't do any good for her now.

"Plan?" Kaitlin questions from the backseat, leaning forward as I start up the Rover. Next to me, Summer rolls her eyes. She's read the plan.

"My five year plan," I inform the girl as I merge into traffic. "Ryan and I get married, and then we spend two years getting adjusted to married life and making sure our careers are stable. Then, in year two we're going to get pregnant – preferably in the summer, because – as Summer said – I'd rather give birth in the cooler months. Then we'll wait one year before we have our second child."

"Good God," Kaitlin groans. "Let me guess, you already have names picked out for your kids, too?"

"That's not weird," I protest, maybe a little louder than necessary. I'm _not_ crazy. I'm not.

Ok, maybe a little. But having your children's names picked out isn't crazy. Lots of girls do it.

"Is Ryan ok with this plan?" I snap back into reality at Kaitlin's question.

"Ryan doesn't know about the plan," Summer drones next to me, completely bored with this conversation. Kaitlin quirks an eyebrow at me.

"We haven't had a chance to discuss it yet." Well, that's a lie. I've had this plan from the minute he proposed. I've just put off telling him because I'd rather not freak him out. He does that at any sign of commitment. I just want to get him down the aisle before hitting him with the _future_.

Although maybe I _should_ tell him about the plan before we get married. If he hears it, it may make him realize I'm not what he wants. And as much as that would hurt, I'd rather him figure that out before we get married than after.

I shake my head and take a deep breath – I need to stop thinking like that. Ryan loves me. He wouldn't have proposed if he didn't and he already said he wanted children with me. There's absolutely nothing to be worried about. He'll love the plan. He loves being in control, so having the future laid out like this should appeal to him. He'll be fine with it.

The plan is fool proof.

* * *

"So where are your parents?"

He freezes, spoon raised halfway to his mouth, and he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the kitchen table. "Cody," I try to make myself sound like a parent – although I'm not sure it's effective – but he looks up at me. "Where are your parents?"

He gives a little shrug, eyes lowering again. "My dad's dead. He got killed." His eyes flick up to me for a brief second before going back down to the table, "this drug dealer got angry and shot him a couple years ago."

"And your mom?" He looks a little surprised when I don't make some big deal about his dad, and he shoves the spoonful of Cheerios in his mouth before answering.

"She's at home."

It's almost scary, the relief that rushes through my chest – he has a mother. I can send him home.

_Thank God_.

"Alright, I'll call her after we eat." And there goes the relief, because the look of absolute _fear_ that crosses his face ruins that plan. "Tell me about her." I don't want to ask him outright why he doesn't want to go home – he'll just close up and not say anything. It's what I would've done.

He shrugs, stirring his Cheerios aimlessly. "When dad got killed, she got angry. She started drinking a lot. Then she lost her job." He shrugs again, still staring down at the bowl of now mostly milk, "she doesn't notice me much, and when she does…" he doesn't have to say anything else, because I know what he'd say. She drinks, she gets angry, and then she hits him.

"Where do you live?"

* * *

"Oh my God!"

"What?"

"Pull over!"

"What? Kaitlin, what's going on?" I pull off to the side of the interstate, breaking hard and putting the car into park before whipping around. "Are you ok?"

"We have to go there!" She points at a large sign outside. "'The World's Largest Thermometer_!'_"

"Kaitlin!" I turn angrily back around, putting a hand over my heart. I thought she was hurt.

"Come on," she goads, "we didn't get to do anything fun in Vegas. I wanna see this. I mean, it's the _World's Largest Thermometer_. All the words are capitalized – that's gotta mean it's awesome."

"We're not going to see some stupid attraction, where they probably make you pay fifty bucks just to get in and look at the thing." I turn to look at her again, only to find her with her stubborn face on. And when I look to Summer for confirmation, she just gives me a _what the hell?_ look.

I sigh, put my blinker on, get back onto the road, and take the appropriate exit.

* * *

"What d'you want?" the woman slurs at me when she opens the door and she reminds me so forcibly of my own mother that it takes a second to take a breath to talk.

"Mrs. Miller?"

"Yeah?" She looks me over, twisting her face up. "Whatever you're selling, I don't want any."

"I'm here because of your son, Cody." At his name, she slumps against the door – not in relief, because she rolls her eyes.

"You're a cop." It's not a question, which makes me wonder how often the cops have come by to talk to her about Cody.

"No. I'm an architect, actually." Which confuses her, and she crosses her arms over herself. "I found him, and he's been staying with me for the past couple of days." And then it hits me – that I don't want him to go back to this bitch, because she doesn't look even a bit relieved. She looks confused.

She didn't even realize he'd been gone.

"How nice," she sneers, looking me over once again. "He's gone and gotten himself a rich boy to _help_ him." The way she says help… I know what she means. She means _help_ like the system means _help_. To her, I'm just another useless do-gooder who likes to think they're helping, but they're not.

"Look, he doesn't seem to want to come home," I tell her bluntly, because I don't really like her, and I don't feel like being nice to anyone who hits their kids. "But seeing as I can't legally keep him, I brought him back."

"He with you?" she looks around me, to Taylor's convertible where – yes – Cody's sitting in the front seat, staring at the dashboard. She sighs loudly. "You shoulda just kept him."

"He's not my responsibility," I remind her. It's not that I don't want to help him, but I can't just _take_ her child. Even the Cohens would've had to give me back if my mom had wanted me.

I thank God every day she hadn't.

"Wish he weren't mine," she mutters, looking past me again to my car.

* * *

"Well, that was a _splendid_ waste of time."

"Ok , so it wasn't as cool as I thought it was going to be," Kaitlin admits, shrugging.

"I'm tired," Summer cuts in, looking grumpy and pissed off. "I wanna go to sleep."

"It's only eight thirty," Kaitlin argues, looking at her watch.

"And by the time we make it home, it'll be two in the morning." I sigh wearily, noting the sign for the motel nearby. "Let's go get a room."

"Fine. Can I have my own room? Cause I don't wanna sleep with preggo over there, and I want to call Justin. Phone sex sounds fun and I've never tried it."

Which makes me flash back to Ryan and my one bout of phone sex, and I'm tempted to call him. Except would that count as regular sex? Would that break the no-sex rule? Even if it didn't, I don't think it's fair of me to do that to him. He's having enough trouble with this as it is.

"You can have your own room," I agree. "I'll stay with Summer." One of us has to, just in case. Summer throws her arm around me as we walk to the motel.

"I'll try not to move around a lot," she promises, and I laugh.

* * *

"We'll need to get you some clothes," I tell him absentmindedly as I put his bags down in the guest bedroom. He nods, looking lost and a little confused, but he doesn't say anything. "Get some sleep."

And when I leave his room, I can't believe this. I can't believe I took him home – _again_. What was I thinking? I can't keep him. But his mom gave me her full permission to do with him what I wanted. She gave him to me. I could've said no – told her to take her kid back – but I couldn't. I couldn't send him back to that woman.

I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to do now.

Well, tonight I'll get some sleep. Tomorrow's Saturday, so – apart from going over little details of the floor plan for Mrs. Casetti – I don't have to work. I'll take him out shopping, get him some real clothes… maybe a haircut. And then I'll have to talk to Sandy or something.

I don't know any of this legal stuff.

* * *

"So how are you?" Summer asks, breaking the silence with a low voice. I turn around in the darkness to see her outline against the vague light from the window. "I mean _really_."

I sigh, shifting onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. For some reason, I find that comforting – staring up at a blank ceiling. I never did before, but lately I've been doing it more often. "I'm nervous," I admit. I haven't told Summer that I'm absolutely terrified of marriage, and I'm not going to tell her now.

"Why?"

Because I'm not sure I'm what he really wants. Because look how well my other marriage turned out.

"Oh you know," I wave my hand, even though I'm not sure she can see it in the dark, "just wedding stuff. Like, my mom's coming, and I have to stand up in front of all those people and what if I mess up?" I hope she misses the fact that my voice is just a little too cheerful, but I can't help it. If I don't go with _cheerful_ I'll end up with _terrified_.

"Taylor, you've given _two_ valedictorian speeches and you lived with your mom for eighteen years."

"Yeah, but I haven't lived with her for seven and giving speeches to people you don't know is a lot easier than standing up in front of people you do."

"That doesn't make any sense," she tells me, shifting uncomfortably on her bed. "You're being weird again."

"I'm always weird," I remind her, hoping that'll get her off this track.

"That's true," she agrees – a little _too_ easily. Am I that insane? "And I guess Atwood's not reassuring you at all." That earns a snort of laughter from me, which gets her going, and we lay there and giggle for a while.

Is this what sleepovers are like? I never had one when I was little, but they sounded like fun. And even though Summer and I lived together for two years (and that year I lived at the Roberts'), we never actually slept in the same room and chatted like… well, girls.

"Ryan's more tense than I am about it," I tell her. "Although that may have something to do with him not getting laid for two months…" She giggles again.

"He's also just being Atwood. You remember committophobe Ryan Atwood? I think it's a testament to you that he hasn't… fled the country or something yet."

"Maybe he's comfortable," I suggest, voice low. Summer nods, taking it as a good thing, but I didn't mean it that way. She thinks I mean Ryan's comfortable in our relationship – he loves me enough to know its right. I meant Ryan's comfortable in our relationship – he's marrying me because it's easy.

I'm not going to correct her.

Summer's cell phone goes off, and she huffs in annoyance. "Seth," she mutters darkly, looking at the display. "Doesn't he know what time it is? What?" she answers the phone angrily as I look at the clock.

It's nine-thirty.

I roll my eyes as I hear them start to argue over the phone – Summer calling Seth 'immature' for watching _'_really random movies'.

What in the world gave him the idea to watch _Back to the Future_?

_

* * *

_

Ok, I know everyone was waiting for Taylor to come home, but I had to postpone it a day, because Ryan needed to find Cody's parents. So I promise, next chapter has her coming home.

_Review!_


	7. Day 7

_So this is one of my favorite chapters. But I'm slightly nervous posting it, because public opinion could go multiple ways. I wonder whether people will hate Taylor, Ryan, Kirsten, or Sandy the most… they're all a little too… human in this chapter._

_By the way, I mention Taylor and Ryan's downstairs neighbor in this, and I'm just wondering if anyone will catch where the name is from. Especially if you combine it with Ms. Casetti…_

_Enjoy_

_Music: I know you tried, I know you're cursed, I know your best was still your worst_

* * *

I grin out at the road, ignoring Summer's eye rolls and Kaitlin's muttering. They're both so crabby. Well, Summer's pregnant, and Kaitlin's… Kaitlin, so I really shouldn't be surprised. But they should be happy! I am.

I get to see Ryan today.

And not just today – in approximately twenty minutes. Fifteen, if I push the speed limit. Which I might actually do.

I can't believe how much I want to see him. I probably shouldn't want to see him this much, but I can't help it. I love him. God, I love him so much. And I have such great news to tell him! I can't wait to tell him all about Trey; that he's coming, that he's _excited_ to come. That he's actually doing really well in his life. I know Ryan worries about him. He never talks about Trey, but I know he worries. Like sometimes, when Franks says something about his childhood? Ryan twitches a little and starts to brood, and I know it has nothing to do with the past haunting him. He's wondering how Trey is.

And now I get to tell him that Trey has a good job. Trey's in love. I mean, I'm _assuming_ he is. He didn't say anything, and Jess didn't say anything, but I think I can read Atwoods pretty well, and I'm sure he's in love.

My only worry is how Ryan'll take the news at first. I mean, he may worry about Trey, and Trey may be doing really well, but that doesn't mean he'll be overjoyed Trey's actually coming to the wedding. But I have my plan in my head. It includes a lot of pouty lips, hopeful eyes and a whole mess of guilt. And, if none of those work, I'll resort to the orgasm theory. A blowjob is a small price to pay for him agreeing to be reunited with his brother.

Five minutes.

Ok, so maybe I broke the speed limit a little. And maybe the sound barrier. I just can't wait to see him.

I make the quick stop at Summer's apartment, where she and Kaitlin get out – Kaitlin's car is here, and she's going to help pregnant Summer carry her bags up the stairs. I wave perkily at them – they scowl – before pulling out. It doesn't take me long to drive – speed – to my apartment.

I park, almost hitting our downstairs neighbor Mrs. Ratchett in the process. She yells something at me and I apologize, but it doesn't work too well, because I'm grinning. She shakes her head at me and I bound up the steps, taking them two at a time. There's a breathless pause as I slide the key into the lock and open the door.

I hear the vague sounds of video games going in the next room, and it makes me smile more. I love that he plays video games. Summer hates that Seth still does – she tells him its juvenile – but I don't mind Ryan doing it. I know he didn't have a proper childhood.

"Ryan?" Oh, I suck horribly at trying to hide my excitement. I walk down the short hallway until it opens up into the living area, and my eyes go to the shaggy blonde head staring at the TV screen.

Except it's not _Ryan's_ shaggy blonde head. The game pauses and the head turns toward me and I just stare at the boy. He's just a kid – no more than thirteen, at most – and he looks just as surprised as I am to be here.

"Taylor." I look up and Ryan comes out from the kitchen area – I hadn't even seen him there. He looks a little worried and caught off guard. Looks like I came home earlier than he expected.

How rude of me.

He reaches the living area and pauses. The kid stares at me and I stare at him and _Ryan_ stares at me and then the kid turns to look at Ryan and I'm really confused, but somehow I'm not talking and neither is Ryan - which isn't so much of a surprise - and I'm not sure the kid _dares_ to speak, but I kind of wish he would, because I want to know what's going on.

"Taylor," Ryan starts, swallowing thickly and stepping toward me like he thinks I'm going to run, "this is Cody."

"Hi," the boy waves at me, ducking his head when I turn to him. Oh God. "Thanks for letting me stay here," he continues politely. I shut my eyes.

Dear God.

* * *

"I get it Ryan, I do," she steps forward, placing her hands on my chest and looking up at me sympathetically. I hate sympathy. "I'm not stupid. And I know I didn't know you back then, and you don't talk about it a lot, but I get it." Her hands tighten, gripping my t-shirt, and she looks almost desperate, "but taking a kid in? Ryan, he's not your responsibility, and did you even think of _me_ in this?"

"I can't just kick him out," I protest lamely. I don't know how I'm supposed to make her understand this.

"So find his parents!" she begs, which makes me feel like shit. I hate making her upset.

"His dad's dead and his mom hits him," I tell her, because she needs to know. She needs to know Cody has no one. "I'm not saying we adopt him, but we have to help. Like Sandy and Kirsten…" I can't finish the sentence. I know why I'm fighting so hard for this – hell, _she_ knows why I'm fighting so hard for this – but I can't admit it out loud. I can't be that pathetic. I don't want to be.

"We're not Sandy and Kirsten," she whispers, but her voice is edged with panic, hands white-knuckled on my shirt. "They were married for sixteen years and financially stable when they took you in. Did you think of that, Ryan? We're not even married yet. Did you think of our children?"

"We don't have children." I regret the words immediately, because she flinches back slightly, eyes starting to water. Shit, she must be more worried than I thought she was. She _never_ cries.

"That's not the point, Ryan," she whispers, "someday we will. What of them? And if that doesn't bother you, then the money issue should." She's right, of course. We aren't hurting for anything, but a kid? Especially a fully fledged thirteen year old that would require clothes, food, schooling. A college fund.

"The Cohens-" I start, but she tugs harshly on my shirt, letting out a strangled sound of protest.

"We're not the Cohens!" She finally lets go of me and steps back. "And I'm sorry, Ryan, but Sandy bringing you home without asking Kirsten first? It was wrong."

"It wasn't wrong," I hear myself say, but it's suddenly like I'm completely detached. I know she's right. Sandy never should've brought in a stray kid without consulting his wife. But knowing it and hearing your fiancée say it are two different things and… well, it fucking _hurts_.

"It was," she says softly, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, but we can't do this. We can't keep him. He's not a stray puppy." I look up at her dully, because this conversation is way too familiar. Except the last time I heard those words, I was hiding behind a corner in the Cohen's kitchen. "He can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow we have to give him back to his mom or… give him to Child Services or _something_."

"Fine," I grit out, feeling the familiar heat of anger flood through me. "Then go tell him that."

"That's not fair," she shoots back, looking horrified. "You brought him in…"

"And you're kicking him out," I growl, and she actually takes a step back. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of my head, I know I shouldn't be this angry. I can't help it though. Hearing it all – _stray puppy, Child Services_ – I'm so angry. And what's worse, the fact that she doesn't _get_ it makes me love her a little less. I'm supposed to be marrying this girl soon, and right now…

Right now I hate her.

"You're just like your mother."

There's dead silence in the room.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"Right," she whispers, hand drifting up to her chest and she unconsciously clenches it into a fist over her heart. Fuck. Shit. Shit.

_Shit._

"Taylor." _Shit._ She ignores my apology, because that's what it was: an apology. I suck. I can't even apologize right. Either way, she ignores the _attempted_ apology and moves past me towards the bed, where her half-unpacked luggage sits.

I'm vaguely aware of her moving around the room, gathering clothes, but I can't stop staring at that fucking luggage. It's the same ones she used when she went to Paris. I hate that luggage. It keeps taking her away from me. It's only when I hear the sound of the zipper closing that I snap out of it. She pulls the thing off the bed and heads for the door, but I grab her arm. She pauses – lets me stop her – but she doesn't look at me, opting instead to stare at my chest. I don't say anything.

"I think I'm going to stay at Summer's for a while." Her voice is low, but in the silence of the room I can hear it fine.

"Taylor, I'm sorry." I shift my grip, placing my hands on her shoulders and turning her to face me. "I didn't mean it."

She looks up at me with a small smile, eyes still watery, but her expression… fuck. It makes me feel like absolute shit. She _loves_ me, even though I'm a fucking moron. She places a hand on my cheek and leans up, pressing a chaste kiss on my lips. It makes me relax a little, because she's not angry – she's scary when she's angry. But she's not angry, and even though I know it'll take a little for her to- "I'll call you in the morning."

Wait, what?

She kisses me again, lightly, before stepping out of my grip and picking up her bag. She stops at the door, looking over her shoulder at me and taking in a shaky breath before giving me what I assume is supposed to be a smile.

Then she leaves.

* * *

The kid – Jesus, I can't even call him by his name – watches me leave, looking confused. I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on the floor as I grip my overnight bag tightly and leave the apartment. Ryan doesn't follow.

He never does.

I don't go to Summer's. I meant to, but somehow I end up at the Cohens, knocking softly on the door – almost like I don't want them to hear. Obviously they do, because Sandy opens it a minute later, recognition sparking in his eyes as he takes in the suitcase and the tears blurring my vision. I'm not crying – not yet – but I'm almost there.

He steps aside and motions for me to come in, shutting the door behind us when I'm through. "I take it you want to talk to Kirsten," he puts his hand on my back, leading me towards the kitchen. I nod, not willing to talk just in case it triggers the crying. I hate crying.

"Taylor," she sounds surprised, looking up from the table and her food. Sophie squeals and jumps up, running to hug me. I place my hand on her blonde head and try to smile as she looks up at me.

"Taylor!" she backs away slightly, taking my hand and pulling me toward the table. "Mommy and daddy are being boring. Come play with me."

"I think Taylor and mom need to have some girl time," Sandy smiles, somehow detaching the little girl's hand from mine. Kirsten frowns slightly – she must not know about the kid. Sandy does – it was obvious from the look of resignation on his face when he opened the door. "Why don't we go upstairs and I'll read you some Nancy Drew?" Which normally would have me giggling, just picturing Sandy reading Nancy Drew to his daughter – mimicking all the voices, getting really into it. But right now all I can manage is a smile and a sniffle.

Sophie puts her hands on her hips, sticking her bottom lip out – a move I know well from Seth. "_I'm_ a girl," she reminds her father.

"Sophie," I cut in, swallowing to control the waver to my voice. "Why don't you go upstairs with your dad while your mom and I have _boring_ girl talk, and then after, I'll come up and you can show me how pretty your flower girl dress is?" Her eyes widen and she runs up the stairs, calling for Sandy to come after her.

He hesitates, placing a hand on my shoulder before following. "What's going on?" Kirsten remains at the table and I go over to sit next to her.

"Ryan…" I swallow hard again. "He took a kid in." She looks confused, because I'm not explaining this right. "He told me the kid was all alone, and he took him home." My voice cracks a little, but I manage to go on, "he let him sleep in the guest room, Kirsten. He's been here for _days_."

"Wait," Kirsten cuts in, speaking slowly. "He took a kid in, as in _took a kid in_?" I nod, waiting for her to tell me it's a good thing. I could see it in Sandy's eyes – the almost disappointment that I didn't 'get' it. It was stronger in Ryan's eyes. "I see."

"Kirsten," I beg, "just… what am I supposed to do?"

"What do you _want_ to do?" she asks, always the mediator. I just want her to tell me the solution. I want her to tell me how she dealt with this.

"I don't think I _can_ do it," I whisper. "I just… I want Ryan to myself." My head drops and I watch as I pick the cuticles around my nails. "How horrible is that?" I laugh, but it turns into a sob halfway through. "I want Ryan to myself – just for a little while. It's all part of the plan... God, he's right," I break down, tears falling slowly onto my hands below me.

"How is he right?" she asks calmly, not making any move to comfort me.

"That I'm like my mother."

"He said that?" I can _hear_ the _Newport_ seep into her voice – the cold politeness. I can only nod, hoping she'll notice the slight movement of my head, because I still can't look at her. She lets out a heavy sigh and I hear her shift. "When we took Ryan in," she starts warily, slowly, like she's debating the right thing to say, "I was angry. That Sandy would give the boy false hopes, that he'd put our family in danger, that Seth would be jealous, that he'd turn out to be some psychotic. Sandy was… I think he was disappointed in me, for not understanding his motive."

"But you did understand his motive," I whisper, getting the courage to look up. "I get Ryan's."

She nods again, "I got his motive, but I didn't have the emotional attachment. Ryan and Sandy? They grew up in poor neighborhoods, with unavailable, abusive parents. They both feel some sort of obligation to make it better for others."

"My mother wasn't so great," I remind her, voice dull. I've stopped crying now. "It's not like I wouldn't have been grateful to be adopted. But I can't help thinking that this is bad – that we can't do this. Just… tell me, when did you 'understand'?" I spit out the word, because to be honest, I'm a little resentful. That Ryan expects me to just _understand_ everything he does. Like he and Summer expect me to _understand_ about Trey.

"When I saw him in prison." It's a definite answer; she doesn't have to think about it. "I couldn't leave him in there and after I took him home, I couldn't force him out again. But Taylor," she reaches forward – _finally_ – to take my hand, "even then I wasn't _completely_ sure. I still had my doubts." She hesitates a second, "even years later I had my doubts." The last part is whispered and her eyes flick to the doorway – like she's making sure Sandy isn't there. "When he ran away and Seth ran away? I wished I hadn't ever taken him in. I loved him, Taylor, but he took my son away. And I know it wasn't his fault, I know it was Seth's choice, but…"

"You can't help how you feel," I answer, giving her hand a squeeze to reassure her – partly that what she felt is ok, partly to let her know I'll never tell Ryan or Sandy.

"It went away slowly – the regret. It popped up every time he got in trouble, it got worse when I was… drinking. I think the first time I _didn't_ regret taking him in when something bad happened was after Marissa died. After Sandy and I went down to Mexico to find them. I remember seeing him and the first thing I felt was relief."

I don't say anything and we sit in silence for what seems like ages. It's all well and good – that she loves Ryan. How can she not? And maybe I'd grow to love the kid – _Cody_, I force myself to say - but I don't know if I'm capable of doing it. I don't know if I can be what he needs.

_You're just like your mother_.

"Taylor!" Sophie calls loudly from the stairs, sounding impatient.

I wipe my eyes and paste a smile on my face, getting up and leaving the kitchen. Sandy passes me on the way, looking from Kirsten to me – Kirsten looking serene and me looking… well, looking like I've been crying. His face falls, and I see the disappointment come back.

"Taylor, come on!"

* * *

It takes me a while, but eventually I leave the bedroom. Cody's still sitting on the couch, but he hasn't unpaused the game. He looks guilty and it makes my heart squeeze painfully. He has no reason to feel guilty. This isn't his fault.

And it hurts, because I recognize the self-blame.

"You've been real nice," he starts, standing up and moving toward the door, "but I should go. I didn't mean to make trouble."

"You didn't," I sigh, running my hands over my face, which probably doesn't reassure the kid. "It's my fault. I didn't handle this well."

"I'll leave," he repeats sullenly. I recognize it all – the guilt, the false nonchalance, the indifferent shrug, the buried hope that _somehow_ he'll get to stay. That _somehow_ I'll rescue him.

"It's getting dark," I tell him, crossing my arms and trying to look stern. Years of dealing with a _quite_ rebellious Sophie seem to be paying off, because his head jerks up in surprise. "I'm not letting you out this late."

"I'm not a little kid," he protests, guilt and pride both fighting for dominance. "It's only eight."

"I don't care how old you are," my voice gets commanding. "You're not going out." For a minute it looks like he's gonna protest – out of sheer goddamn stubbornness that I recognize all too well – but he sees that I'm not shitting him, and he relents. "Now, I want you to go take a shower, and when you get out we'll have dinner." He shrugs, but I don't miss the flash of pure _relief_ before he ducks his head and makes for the bathroom. When I hear the water turn on I dig into my pocket for my cell phone.

I thank God and Jesus and Moses and Abraham and whoever else is listening that she answers on the third ring.

"I told you I'd call you tomorrow." She doesn't greet me at all, and her voice isn't angry or annoyed – it's just weary.

"Yeah, well I wanna talk now." Ok, I need to calm down. I'm too defensive. Because I'm scared. If she'd left in a huff – angry and cursing my name – I wouldn't be this scared. I know how to deal with angry Taylor. Usually all it takes is a well placed pout, a sincere apology, and a long, slow kiss to calm her down. I'm not sure how to deal with weary Taylor. The last time she was like this… the last time she was like this was after the earthquake. Right before she left for France.

"Look, I just think it's best if I sleep here tonight," she says, and I hear the silent plea for me to just leave it alone.

"Taylor, this is stupid. Come home."

"I can't," her voice drops low and she sounds like she's going to cry. Oh, not good. There's the anger again, the frustration.

"Cody has to stay for the night, but I'll call Child Services tomorrow," I manage to get out the words, almost choking on _Child Services_.

"No," she sighs and I can see her, pinching the bridge of her nose like she does when she's trying to explain something that I don't get. "You're not going to." I start to protest, because I want her back here, damnit. "You can't."

"Yeah, I can," I start, but she cuts me off.

"No," she laughs lightly, but it wavers, and I know she's on the edge of breaking, "you can't. It's not in your nature, Ryan. You're going to keep him. I can't ask you not to. I can't ask you to be someone you're not."

There's a pause as I think this through – _really_ think this through, because I'm angry and I need to make a rational decision here. "I can," I say slowly. "If it's a decision between him and you, I choose you."

"I didn't say that," she protests. "This isn't a decision for you. You're keeping him."

"Then come home," I hear the desperation in my voice. Why is she being difficult? She's not letting me choose her and she's not letting me choose Cody. Then what's the problem here?

"Ryan, _I_ have to make a decision."

"You can't seriously be breaking up with me over this." I'm only vaguely aware that my desperation is turning into anger again, because I can't control the situation. This is ridiculous. It's insane. It can't be _fucking_ _happening_.

"I'm not ready to be a mother, Ryan," she half laughs, half sobs, and I know her control's snapped. "It wasn't in the plan yet!"

"What plan?" I growl, running a hand through my hair as I start to pace.

"My plan for us. I want to have children with you, Ryan, but… I can't handle one now. I just can't. We were supposed to get married, focus on _us_ and our careers for a few years before we even considered kids. I can't… I can't be a mother." I hear her inhale sharply – she's trying to control herself, because she knows I can't stand when girls cry. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Thank God, something I can do. I can say that. _I love you_ always makes things better, right?

"I'll call you tomorrow, ok?"

"Taylor." It's too late, though. She's hung up. Fuck.

"Sorry." I turn to find Cody standing in the hall, my smallest t-shirt and pair of sweats hanging off his frame.

"How long've you been there?" He shrugs, and I hope he wasn't there for the part where I told her I'd choose her. Because even though I'd say it again, because I meant it, I don't want to hurt the kid. "Come on, I'm hungry." I place my hand on his shoulder – _very_ aware of the flinch – and lead him into the kitchen. I make him grilled cheese and he sits at the kitchen table.

He wolfs the sandwich down, just like he did the day I brought him home.

Taylor's right. She always is. It was stupid of me to bring him home. I don't have the money, I don't have the experience, I don't have the stability to take care of a teenager. Especially a teenager with issues. I've barely got my own issues dealt with. This is so wrong in so many ways. And she's right, I shouldn't have done this to _her_. What right did I have making this life-changing decision without consulting her first? What right did I have dangling hope in front of the kid's face without the means to back it up?

And she's right, because I'm going to keep him.

_

* * *

_

review


	8. Day 8

_Ok, last chapter was WAY angsty, so I decided to lighten it up a bit this one. Hopefully it works. And the answer to my question last chapter: Casetti/Ratchett is a character from 'Murder on the Orient Express'. Congrats to Bookjunkie-22 for getting it right! You win… um… this mention? And a really quick update! Cause I'm bored and trying to stay awake._

_Also, 100 reviews! Yayness. I'm all sorts of happy. Have I mentioned I love all of you (even the lurkers – I know you're there!) Thanks for reading, you guys rock my world._

_Btw, this may be my favorite chapter so far (it's fighting for that honor with last chapter)._

_Music: and when I lie behind you… I think 'will we sink or swim?', cause we could do either on a whim_

* * *

"_What now?_" she gives a desperate whining sob, and I can picture her – hair a mess, not even bothering to open her eyes. She knows who's calling her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say as nonchalantly as I can, completely ignoring the panic that's making my heart try to bust out of my ribcage, "were you sleeping?"

"Ryan, I swear to God…" she moans in frustration and over the phone I can hear her shifting. "I told you we could talk _in the morning_."

"It is morning," I shrug, looking over at the clock next to my bed. "Two twenty-three in the morning, to be exact."

"I'm hanging up."

She does and I shut my own phone in response. Then I set the alarm and lay down.

* * *

I swear to God, I'm turning my cell phone off.

The buzzing wakes me up and I glance at the alarm clock next to the bed. Two fifty-eight.

That's it. I've had enough of him.

"Ryan," I grit out angrily when I flip the damn thing open, "stop calling."

"Nope."

I hang up.

* * *

My cell phone alarm wakes me up and my eyes open without protest. Which is weird, because usually not getting sleep makes me a little zombie-like, but right now I'm wide awake.

I'm on a mission.

I flip the phone open and hit redial, waiting. She picks up on the fourth ring.

"This isn't helping your case," she tells me, sounding more worn down than angry. Good. The plan's working.

"Uh huh." I know me being nonplussed about this is making her even more frustrated, and I go with it. "So Sophie's birthday's coming up in a month, and I was thinking of getting her an art set, because she keeps talking about how she wants to draw like Seth does…"

"If I promise to come home the minute the sun rises, will you stop calling me?" she interrupts with a desperate whine and I feel the smile break across my face.

"Yes."

"Ok!" she _really_ sounds desperate now. "I promise. I'll come home, ok? So please – _please –_ let me sleep?"

"Goodnight, Taylor."

It's not till I've hung up, put my cell on the nightstand, lay down, and pulled the covers over me that the relief hits me. And not just _hits_ me – _chokes_ me.

_Fuck_, I'd been playing with fire there – calling her every half hour since that first phone call. That was stupid of me. That was… just… fucking spectacularly idiotic. I could've pissed her off more. I could've chased her away more. I could've lost her.

What had I been thinking?

Well, truthfully, I hadn't been. My first – and really only – thought had been to convince her to come home. The method I chose? Not the best. I _could've_ waited until she called me tomorrow morning, but it's kinda hard falling asleep when the woman you're so _fucking desperately in love with_ may leave you. So I guess I can play the love card here. I mean, Seth gets to use it a lot for his idiotic behavior, I should too, right?

Right?

* * *

Finally.

Sleep.

Precious sleep.

...except it doesn't come.

Go figure, the _minute_ he gives me permission to sleep, I can't. Go freaking figure. And it's not like I'm not tired. I am. I'm really tired – yesterday took a lot out of me. Ryan, the kid, the argument.

_You're just like your mother._

But there's this weird feeling in my chest and no matter which way I turn, I can't make it go away. I haven't felt this since… since he proposed. It's the same feeling I got when he suggested we live together, when he told me he loved me for the first time, when he first kissed me. It's the feeling I get whenever Ryan and I have a first in our relationship. But what is this? It's definitely not our first fight; it's not our first make-up.

Oh.

It's the first time he's fought for me.

I mean _really_ fought for me – not when he was just telling me I was being an idiot, or trying to out-do my ex-husband. This wasn't a jealous _fighting for me_. And it wasn't a passive move. He'd been persistent. He'd been unbending in his decision. He'd been… well, _me._ Or, the me that stalked him, way back when, or the me that told him no – and meant it – all those times he tried to end our relationship over something stupid.

Well thank God. I was beginning to worry there.

* * *

I've been up since five.

And considering I only caught twenty minute naps from about eleven to four in the morning, let's just say I didn't get a lot of sleep.

But I'm wide awake.

It may have something to do with the entire pot of coffee I've already downed in the past hour, but I think it may have more to do with the fact that Taylor's coming home.

When is she coming home? She _said_ the minute the sun came up, but it's been up for friggen fifteen minutes, and she's not here, goddamnit. Where is she? What if she only promised she'd come home to get me to stop calling? What if she's not coming home? What if she went back to France? What if she went back to Henri-Michel? Crap, now I have to go to France and beat the bastard up, and I _hate_ flying.

Whoa.

I have _got_ to stop drinking coffee.

Seriously. I'm having Taylor-like rambles in my head and I haven't been able to stop moving. I started out pacing through the kitchen, and then I went to sit on the living room couch, but then I had to get up because the couch doesn't face the door, so now I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drumming my hands against the wood and shifting every three seconds.

And I have to pee.

Stupid entire pot of coffee.

But I refuse to go to the bathroom. What if she comes home while I'm in there? Then she'll think I'm not here. Then she'll think I don't care. Then she'll leave and she'll fly to France, where she'll go back to Henri-Michel, and holy motherfucking shit, I have _got_ to stop drinking coffee.

I almost knock the entire table over trying to stand up when I hear the knock on the door.

Fuck.

She's here.

Fuck.

I don't remember what I was gonna say to her. I don't remember any of my carefully thought out _please, for the love of God, forgive me_ tactics. Shit. What if I open the door and I can't say anything? Then she'll get mad, or upset, and she'll leave, and she'll go to France, and fucking Henri-Michel will be all '_look at me, I'm French and romantic, I'll take care of you'_.

Ok, I swear, I'm never drinking again.

Coffee.

I'm never drinking _coffee_ again.

A second knock – louder this time – makes me realize I've been standing in the kitchen for a good three minutes, and I stumble past the chair, down the hall and to the door. And it strikes me as weird – as I'm reaching for the doorknob – that Taylor's knocking. She has a key. I turn the handle and open the door.

"Trey?"

What the fuck?

"Ryan?" He looks confused, which is pretty much what I'm going for, too. "I thought Taylor lived here…"

Taylor? He knows Taylor? How the hell does he know Taylor? Did they meet when he was in Newport? Oh my God, what if they met and he slept with her? He used to hit on Newport girls all the time. What if he slept with her, and eight years later was in the area and decided he'd come by and visit for a quickie?

Fuck, my brother slept with my fiancée?

Oh my God. _Never drinking coffee again._

"Um. What are you doing here?" I sound surprisingly calm, considering the way my mind is going batshit insane. And I'm pretty sure there's a muscle in my arm that keeps twitching.

"Well," he starts, and I notice the way he barely looks me in the eye, "your wedding's in a couple days, and we came up early…" he trails off, swallowing thickly.

Wait, we?

"We?"

That gets him to look up at me. "Me and Jess… didn't Taylor tell you?"

Trey and Jess… Sathers? And Taylor was supposed to tell me? Fuck. Vegas. She went to Vegas to see Trey.

I fucking _hate_ Vegas.

When I look up at him again, he looks… scared. I don't think, in all the years I've known my brother, I've ever really seen him _scared_. It makes me feel a little sick, because it's my fault. He's not afraid of getting beaten. He's afraid of me telling him to go away. That I hate him.

Fuck. I _don't_ hate him.

I thought I did. All these years, I've told myself I hate him. But seeing him now… I just don't. I don't hate him, but I don't trust him, either. And I'm not sure I can forgive him.

And I can't turn him away.

Fuck. What am I supposed to do now? Because he's waiting for me to say something – _anything _– and I'm standing here like an idiot. _Say something, idiot_.

"I have to pee."

* * *

Ok. I've decided my official stance on the whole _bringing home a child without telling me_ thing is this: I'm angry.

I'm still going to marry him – the stupid bastard – and I'm going to help take care of Cody, but I won't forgive Ryan for this for a while. He sprung this on me, which is so unfair. Because now _I_ look like the bitch – running out on him and the kid. I look like the selfish, horrible one.

If he had just given me some _time_, I could've come home and been ok with it. Because now that I've had _time_ to think about it, it's not a horrible idea. Yes, I want children with Ryan, and I can still have them. He won't be any less attentive to them because of Cody, and our children will grow up having a big brother to love and take care of them. How can that be bad?

Yes, it's scary, but what isn't? Hell, getting married _still_ terrifies me. I pretend like it doesn't – even Summer doesn't know I'm scared – but I am. I think it's because of how the whole Henri-Michel thing turned out. I mean, my relationship with Ryan is _nothing_ like my relationship with Henri-Michel ever was, but that doesn't matter. Marriage is marriage.

It's then that I realize I'm home, and I shut off the car and get out. Huh. I don't even remember driving here. Oh well. I walk up the stairs and slide the key into the door. For some reason, I open it slowly, like I'm going to find something horrible behind the door. I just don't want to fight with him anymore. I'm angry, but I don't have the energy to argue – I didn't get much sleep last night.

Maybe that was his plan.

Damn him.

I walk into the apartment and stop, because _crap_.

"Taylor." His voice is absolutely dead as he looks at me over his cup of coffee. And across the table from him is Trey.

Crap.

"Ryan. Trey." Trey just nods at me – he doesn't say anything. I think he senses the tension – or maybe Ryan told him about our fight? – and he doesn't want to interrupt.

"Can I talk to you?" Ryan monotones at me, getting up from the kitchen table. "Alone?"

I bite my lip and nod, heading for our bedroom, my heart going a mile a minute, because _crap_, Trey wasn't supposed to come up this soon. He was supposed to come up after I told Ryan… which I was totally planning to do, but I forgot in all the Cody business.

Oh my God, it's all so dramatic.

He comes in after me and shuts the door behind him. We stand in silence for a few minutes – him pacing back and forth and rubbing his hand on the back of his neck and me picking at my nails and shifting from foot to foot.

Here it comes.

"_Trey_?" I wince a little, shrugging. "I told you I didn't want him at the wedding," he hisses at me, and when he finally turns to face me, I can see the shadows in his eyes. He only looks this way when he remembers his past, and I wonder if he's remembering the whole Newport/Marissa/shooting drama, or if it's a little further back than that. I wonder if it's his childhood. And I'm about to apologize, when I remember something.

"No," I cross my arms so he can't see me picking my nails. "You _told_ me he RSVP'd 'no'. I just went down to convince him, only to find out you never invited him at all! And I specifically remember writing out his invitation."

He shifts uncomfortably, shrugging again. "I may have thrown it out on the way to the post office…"

"Ryan!"

"What?" his voice gets louder, anger flashing. "I didn't think it would hurt. I couldn't tell you I didn't want him there, cause then you'd meddle – you always do. So I figured if _he_ refused to come, you'd drop it. I didn't think you'd actually go down to Vegas to talk to him."

"Because I wanted you to be happy!" It's kind of embarrassing, how high my voice goes – a mixture of anger and humiliation, because I can see the _holy shit, I'm marrying a crazy person_ look on his face. "You should've just told me! You never tell me anything!"

"I tell you everything," he growls back defensively.

"No. You never tell me anything about your childhood, you never tell me about all the stuff that's still bothering you. You didn't tell me about how you _took in a kid_."

And there it is. Not the kid thing – he already knows I'm angry about that. But there it is: I want him to tell me about his past. He doesn't say anything for a long time, he just stares at me. Somehow I make it without saying anything else.

"I don't tell you about my childhood," he starts, voice low, not meeting my eyes, "because I don't want you to worry about me." He doesn't have to say the word – I get it. He doesn't want me to _pity_ him.

"Fine," I relent, because now is _not_ the time to get into this. "But how could you not tell me about Cody?"

"How could you not tell me about Trey?" he shoots back, not missing a beat.

…well played, Atwood.

So what do we do now? We're at a standstill – we each did something that we shouldn't have. Yes, we both had good intentions, but still…

"Call it even?" I offer, looking up at him hopefully and sticking my hand out for him to shake. He snaps his head up, eyebrows rising, and he seems to consider it for a second.

"Even." He grips my hand and we shake on it. Then he breaks into a smile and pulls me forward into his chest, bringing his other hand up into my hair as he kisses me. "I missed you," he rumbles when he's done, but he doesn't pull far away. I can feel him breathing against my lips and I actually let out a little whimper.

I missed him, too.

With a brave sigh he pulls back, and right – we're still on our no sex rule. Which _really_ sucks right now, because there's nothing I love more than make-up sex.

"So," he rubs the back of his neck again, "you still gonna marry me even though I'm a closed off asshole?"

"Are _you_ still going to marry _me_ even though I'm an insane meddler?"

"I think we can call that even, too," he suggests with a grin and I nod, unable to help my own smile.

"We should probably go out and talk to Trey. Are you… are you ok with it? I mean, if you want, I can tell him he can't come. I'll make up some excuse, like the wedding hall isn't big enough, or…"

"It's ok." He nods his head slowly, like he's not really sure. "Maybe it's good. You know, to deal with it? I haven't seen him in eight years. And if my dad can change, and my mom can change…" he trails off, and it looks like it just hit him that his _entire family_ will be at the wedding. Cohens, Atwoods, Coopers. Bullits. Townsends.

Oh God. There's a slight chance this wedding _may_ be traumatic.

"Then let's go," I nod to the door. "The longer we stay in here, the more he'll worry." He nods, takes a deep breath, and goes out.

And – of course, because God _loves_ us – we find Trey standing at the kitchen counter, staring at Cody.

Fantastic.

He turns to Ryan, looking absolutely confused. "You have a kid?" I almost laugh – almost – because Trey thinks Cody is Ryan's actual son. Not that I really blame him, because Cody _does_ look almost scarily like Ryan, but _come on_. Ryan gives him this _look_.

"Yeah, I had him when I was twelve."

I burst into laughter.

* * *

I watch as she continues to laugh, hanging onto the counter to stay upright. I love making her laugh – she seems to be the only one who gets my jokes. Not that my jokes are particularly _funny_, but she's the only one who seems to get my own brand of sarcasm. But right now I think its more relief that's making her like this than my joke. Plus, she must be tired, what with me calling every half hour like clockwork.

I smile and shake my head, turning around, only to catch Trey and Cody watching her in confusion. "Sorry," I apologize, grin getting bigger. "She's a little tired."

"Not my fault," she accuses breathlessly, standing up straight and wiping at her eyes. "But speaking of, would you mind if I took a nap?" she gestures at our bedroom, which strikes me weird – that she's asking permission to use her own room. Maybe she feels like she has to, considering she left last night? I don't know. But I nod anyway and I wish I could join her. I'm tired, too, and I missed having her here this past week.

What I _don't_ miss is the irony that if I hadn't taken the kid in, I'd be able to go with her.

Good one, Karma.

"She's weird." I turn back to look at Cody, and I can't help when I start to laugh. Trey shoots me a look – I guess he's never really seen me laughing before. He'd better get used to it, though. I may still be the designated brooder of the family, but ever since Taylor, I definitely laugh more.

What can I say? The girl brings it out in me.

"She is. Better get used to it," I tell him, walking over to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water. His eyes open wide, head whipping around to face me.

"Get used to… I can stay?" I hear his silent question: _she's ok with it?_ I'm pretty sure he knows his staying here is based on whether Taylor wants it or not. Because if Taylor was going to leave me if I kept him… but she's not – _thank God_ – so I don't have to make that horrible decision.

"Don't tell me her crazy's making you decide you'd rather go back to your mom," I resist the urge to smile when he shakes his head sharply. "Then you'll have to get used to her… quirks."

"You'd better get used to never getting your way," Trey mutters to himself, but we both hear. When we turn to look at him, he ducks his head – like he thinks I'm gonna get pissed because he insulted my fiancée. Except he _didn't_ insult her. "She's… persuasive," he murmurs to the floor and I start to laugh again.

"You had no chance," I tell him, trying to forget – at least for the moment – _everything_. All the shit we've been through, all the drama. Now's not the time, because the last thing Cody needs is all this family drama piled on at once. Slow and steady.

And Lord, do I have a lot of drama.

_

* * *

_

On a side note: I miss writing one-shots. I haven't written a one-shot in a while. The last true one was 'Life Story' a month ago and 'Heart-Shaped Box' about three months ago. So, I'm extending an offer: if anyone would like to give me a prompt (preferably short, like one word), I'll try to write a one-shot based off it. You can even request a theme (a particular character or ship).

_review_


	9. Day 9

_Ok, so I'm totally pimping my new story here. Last chapter I asked for prompts, and I got a bunch. So if you requested, pop on by Little Thoughts. Ok… done pimping now._

_Enjoy the Vegasy goodness._

_Music: ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't've fallen in love with?_

* * *

I wake up when he shifts again, this time letting out a soft sigh. I've been trying to fall asleep for a while, but he keeps tossing and turning. Maybe he's just stressed out about everything – Trey, Cody, the wedding. "Ryan?" I open my eyes to find him staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah?" He keeps his voice low for some reason, like he can't speak normally in the dark.

"Why are you being broody?" I shift closer to him, pressing my face into his chest and breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and _him_. He used to sleep in just boxers – or naked – but he's wearing a t-shirt to bed tonight. Because Cody's in the next room?

I guess I'm going to have to stop walking around naked now.

"I'm not being broody," he tells me, stiffening up. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't," I protest, titling my head to look up at him. "And you are so totally being broody. What's wrong?"

"You don't wanna know."

I sigh, propping up on one arm to get a better view of him. "Of course I want to know. If you have some issue, I'd like to get it out in the open before we get married." That earns a bitter laugh out of him, making me frown.

"You really don't wanna know what my problem is," he warns, which is probably the stupidest thing to say. I mean, way to spark my curiosity.

"Ryan Atwood," I make myself sound stern, "tell me."

"Fine," he grits out, jaw clenching. Then he grabs my left hand, sliding it off his chest and down to the bulge in his sweatpants that I hadn't even noticed before.

"Oh," I breathe, feeling the heat rise in my face – and other places – as he continues to stare at the ceiling. He doesn't remove my hand from his crotch either, which is bad. Bad because it isn't helping _him_, and bad because it's sending electricity running from my hand, down my arm, straight to my stomach where it swirls, making the heat between my legs climb unbearably.

"Yeah." He finally releases my wrist and I _force_ myself to take my hand away.

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault," he shrugs, still not looking at me, face totally blank. But yes, it _is_ my fault. The no sex thing is my idea. It's not that I'm regretting it – I'm not, really. Yes, I miss sleeping with him, but I still think it's the best thing for us before the wedding. But I feel bad, because no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to stop doing this to him. I mean, all I was doing was trying to sleep.

"Maybe I should stay at Seth and Summer's till the wedding," I suggest. I watch the protest flicker over his face before it settles back.

"Yeah, that may be a good idea." We sit in silence for a few seconds before he sits up, turning to face away from me and putting his feet on the floor. "I think I'm gonna go sleep on the couch."

"Ryan…" I start, not wanting him to go. But maybe he should if it's what he wants – and if it'll help him. He gets up and finally turns to look at me, a small, indulgent smile on his face. Then he leans forward, resting one hand on the bed, the other gripping the hair at the back of my head as he kisses me hard.

When he's finally finished – when I'm finally so dizzy I can barely focus – he pulls away but keeps his face close. "Five more days," he rasps – apparently just as affected by the kiss as I am. "Five more days till you're all mine." He lets go of my hair and stands up. "I want you to think about that."

Then he leaves the room, shutting the door, and _fuck_, how am I supposed to sleep after _that_?

* * *

"Thanks for helping," I throw over my shoulder as we walk into the apartment.

"Ok, when you said 'I'm taking Cody out', I didn't think it would entail manual labor," he whines back, and I roll my eyes. The guy complains about everything.

"It's not manual labor, Seth." All I asked him to do was help me carry the bags into Cody's room, but he can't even handle that.

To be fair, though, we _did_ buy a lot of stuff for the kid. New clothes, shoes, sheets, more food, and another video game controller. I even made him buy books – although he protested that. Actually, he protested _all_ of it, but I don't care. I'd been the same way when the Cohens first took me in.

"Thanks," Cody mutters when we pile all the stuff in his room, and he shoves his hands into his pockets and ducks his head. Seth shoots me a look that I can only interpret as _are you sure you don't have a DeLorean?_

"It's no problem," I shrug back, moving over to the closet. "Now, Taylor has a lot of shi-_stuff_ in here, so I'll try and make some room."

"Ooh, going through Taylor's stuff. That sounds fun." I hear the sarcasm in Seth's voice, and I just _know_ that behind me, he's rolling his eyes. But when I turn around and catch him making a gagging gesture, Cody's grinning, so I decide to let him live. But I'll still make him pay.

"And just for that, you're gonna help me."

"Aw crap."

* * *

"How do I look?"

I turn on the dais to face Summer and Kaitlin, waiting as they run their gazes over me appraisingly. It's almost scary, how nervous I am. I mean, I know I'm not ugly, and I know Ryan thinks I'm _hot_ – his word, not mine – but I'm not sure I'm pretty enough to pull this off. To pull off a wedding dress. What if I look weird in it? What if I look stupid? I already know I'm not looking as good as Summer did.

Truthfully, I'm almost glad she's eight months pregnant – so she won't look better than me on my wedding day.

Or, at least I _had_ been happy about her being pregnant, but then she had to go and get that pregnancy _glow_. Which means she pretty much looks better than she ever has – and she's one of those women who keeps their bodies during pregnancy. It looks like she's Summer, just with a basketball tucked into her shirt.

I'm almost tempted to make her wear a giant, electric orange taffeta dress.

"You look good," Kaitlin speaks first, nodding at me. I wish she could be my other bridesmaid, but Ryan didn't have another groomsman to go with it, so it's just Seth and Summer. I'm still making Kaitlin do bridesmaid stuff, though – like this dress fitting.

"Ryan won't know what hit him," Summer mirrors Kaitlin's nod, like she approves. I nod – because I'm not about to argue with pregnant Summer – but I don't agree.

I mean, _really_. I highly doubt Ryan'll be _floored_ by me. He's seen prettier girls than me – hell, he's _dated_ prettier girls than me. This is just me in a white dress. What's there to be 'hit' by?

"Can we go lingerie shopping now?" Kaitlin whines, slumping back in her chair. "It's Justin's birthday next month…"

* * *

"Can we take a break?" Seth pants, looking sweaty.

"We've only been doing this for an hour," I roll my eyes at him, not breaking from my movements. What the hell does Taylor need with all this crap? It's just boxes of… well, _crap_. Old papers from college, a box of wires – things like old cell phone chargers, old headphones. There's a pair of boots I remember her buying six years ago that she doesn't wear anymore, a box of VHS tapes – seriously? – and seventeen purses. Seventeen.

Not that it's _messy_, per se. It's all very organized – each box labeled and sorted according to what it is. Like, the purses and the shoes were near each other, then the VHS tapes, then the wires, then papers. Even her clutter is organized.

A slight _oomph_ comes from inside the closet, and I peer in to see Cody struggling with a relatively medium-sized box. He insisted on helping – because it's his room and his stuff, and I'm pretty sure he feels guilty enough, so I let him. And that box looks harmless, but it must be heavy, because he's staggering under its weight. I go in and help him out, letting the thing clunk onto the floor next to the rest of the shit.

"Good God, what's in there?" Seth crinkles up his face in distaste. I shrug, pulling the flaps open to- "Oh," Seth breathes reverently as we all stare into the box. "I feel like there should be… like, _light_ coming from inside, and… and angels singing or something."

"Seth, shut up."

"It's like the Holy Grail…"

"Seth, leave."

"Journals?" Cody cuts in, confused. He doesn't seem to get how spectacularly _wrong_ this could all go.

He's never been in a relationship, apparently.

"_Diaries_," Seth whispers, eyes wide. "Ryan, you have to read them. Preferably out loud. Preferably to me."

"I'm not gonna read them," I hear myself say, eyes drifting back to the box. He sighs in annoyance, and I feel the familiar start of a headache.

"Well, if that's the last box, can we take a break then?" he whines again, apparently losing all interest now that he's not getting his way.

"Yeah," I nod, tearing my gaze away from the diaries and up to him.

"Kickass," he celebrates, leaving the room. "I'm calling out for pizza." There's silence for a few seconds.

"Cody…" I start, and I find myself looking at that damn box again.

"I'll be playing video games," he cuts in, giving me this _look_. Crap. Well, as long as Seth doesn't find out, I guess Cody knowing is ok. So I nod at him, and he leaves, shooting me another look that I read as _'I'll play video games with Seth and distract him_'.

And now it's just me and the box.

Of Taylor's diaries.

All her thoughts, wants, desires, dreams. All laid out for me to read – _begging_ for me to read them. They're calling out to me. But I shouldn't. It's wrong to read her private stuff, right?

Right?

_Right?_

* * *

"I can't believe Ryan actually has a _style_ of lingerie he likes," Summer shakes her head, glaring at the skimpy clothes around us.

"Well, it's not really a _style,_" I protest, shrugging. "I just remember one time he said he loved when I wore stuff that looked French." I shake the set in my hands for emphasis. "Then he muttered something about me being _high-class_ or something like that, I don't know."

"Like a high-class hooker?" Kaitlin asks, eyeing up something that's a little too revealing for my tastes. I like to wear lingerie that isn't so… out there. I like it a little more demure, so Ryan has to sweat it out a bit before he sees the good stuff.

"No," I sigh, holding the hanger across my shoulders and looking in a mirror for comparison. "I think he likes to have this fantasy, where he's still from Chino and I'm this little rich girl he gets to debauch."

"Except he's pretty much _not_ from Chino anymore, and you're already debauched," Summer cuts in drily, folding her arms above her bulging stomach and giving a death glare to some girl who giggles loudly with her boyfriend. I think she officially hates everyone in this store – Kaitlin and me included – because she can't fit into any of it and we can.

"Doesn't seem to matter," I tell her. "Cause it seems like all his fantasies involve corrupting me in some way – _schoolgirl, maid – _although I'm not sure what category _girl in wet t-shirt_ falls under."

"Do you guys ever have _normal_ sex?" Summer asks grumpily.

"All the time. The kinky stuff is only occasionally, but it's much more fun to talk about." I love freaking people out. "Now," I turn to them, holding up the lingerie set I have, "yes or no?"

_

* * *

_

Bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad.

This is so bad.

But I can't stop.

It's like… crack? Crack's addictive, right?

Yeah. It's like crack.

Oh God, I shouldn't be doing this.

Well, so much for my morals, I think as I pick up the first diary. They're all labeled – of course they are, it's Taylor – and this one says _March 2003–December 2003_. And my hands are actually shaking as I sit on the floor and open it to the first page.

The first entry isn't all that interesting – just about how she got the journal from her uncle for her birthday, and she's _totally_ going to write in it _every day_. And the next entry is dated two months later. So much for the every day thing.

I skip ahead to August, 2003. The month I came to live with the Cohens.

Nothing.

Turns out, she was in Cabo for the summer – apparently missing Cotillion, because her mother said her dress made her look fat. It's actually a little frustrating, that I'm not mentioned yet. Is that sad? I decide to scan the pages until I see my name – or at least the words _new kid_. Maybe _hot new kid_?

There it is.

She doesn't mention me until almost a month into sophomore year, and then not even by name. And then only after she's complained about this year being the same as last year:

_-But speaking of Marissa, she's been hanging out with the new boy. I hear he's from Chino. Mother says he's a danger to our community, but she said that about the new Wal-mart, so I'm not so sure. But the new boy hangs out with Seth Cohen like it's no big deal, which is weird. I mean, Seth Cohen's a bigger loser than I am.-_

And that's it.

That's fucking _it_.

She doesn't say my name and she compares me to a Wal-Mart.

I go through the rest of that year, and nothing. The last entry's about how her mother got her diet pills and a gym membership for Christmas, and that's _fucking it_. I don't know why I was hoping I'd be mentioned more. It's not like I thought she'd be following me through high school or anything…

But I guess I wanted her to at least have _noticed_ me. Maybe mentioned she thought I was hot or something? She doesn't even talk about Marissa that much, which I'd really expected. But she doesn't. She talks about books she's read, movies she's watched, what her new playlist consists of, her maid's familial drama.

It's kind of sad, actually.

* * *

"Well, if he's into the whole corrupting you thing, he'll love that," Kaitlin tells me when I exit the changing room, lingerie in hand. "Plus, it matches the wedding dress."

"_I know_!" I grin at the white lace in my hands. I love when things match.

I pay for mine, Kaitlin buying the black one she'd been eyeing down earlier, saying something about Justin exploding. Summer glares at us, rubbing her stomach.

I don't suggest we go to a maternity store for her to buy maternity lingerie. The last time I suggested we go shopping for pregnancy clothes she hit me, called me a bitch, then broke into tears. Because apparently – in Summer language – I'd called her fat.

Actually, anything _anyone_ says means 'you're fat' in Summer language. She's quite touchy about the subject.

* * *

January 2004-December 2004 is just as uneventful. A few mentions of how annoying Marissa is, but other than that, mostly just her mother's bitchiness and her maid's son's problems and how he doesn't realize he loves his best friend. She seems more interested in other people's lives than her own.

I don't make another appearance until halfway through diary number three: January 2005-December 2005. And then all she does is mention how I punched Hess in the face at the kickoff carnival.

I can't decide whether the worst part of that entry is how awesome she thinks the sex with him is, or the way she doesn't call me by my name; just refers to me as 'Marissa's automaton boytoy'.

I'm tempted to skip that entire year, because I _really_, _really_, don't want to read about her relationship with Hess, or her subsequent crush on Seth, and later her fling with the Korean waiter. But something forces me to, and I guess I should take solace in the way she writes about Hess so clinically – he's obviously just a tool for her to use. There's no emotions there, which is… actually it's a relief. I mean, it's sort of depressing how she's such a… well, _bitch_ comes to mind, but it's kind of true. Or, it starts off true, because after her little mini-crush on Seth, she gets better.

She still doesn't talk about _me_ though. It's basically all Seth for a while there, no mention of his – slightly shorter but more masculine – brother. Even when I crack open January 2006-December 2006 I'm not there. Well, not in the first half, when we were still in high school. A _very_ brief mention of how I 'clean up nicely' at prom and how 'un-felon-like' it was for me to get her money back after Volchok stole it.

There's a feeling in the pit of my stomach – something like apprehension – as we reach graduation. I'm almost surprised to find she has an entire entry about Marissa's death. She'd been in Korea at the time, but somehow she managed to get hold of one of those little cards they hand out at funerals – with a soothing picture on the front and a Bible verse on the back – and pasted it into the diary.

Strangely enough, the apprehension doesn't go away with Marissa's death. I find myself almost holding my breath as we move through June, July, August, September, October, November. Although, I have to admit, my favorite entry so far has to go to October 29th _– France sucks_.

I read through Thanksgiving – she hid under Seth's bed? – until I get to what I've been waiting for through four years. Diaries, whatever.

Me.

She starts off ranting about her husband – _God, she can't even call him 'ex-husband'_ _yet_ – and how she tried to enlist my help. Which I'd turned down.

Have I ever mentioned how fucking _glad_ I am Sandy came in and convinced me to play the hero again?

I read the next entries with my heart going a mile a minute, because she fell for me way too quickly. One kiss and she was head over heels, planning on how best to seduce me. I'd thought the sleep therapist thing had been stupid, but some of her other possible ideas had been downright… well, _crazy_. There was one about having some sort of 'accident' to get my attention – and sympathy. I'm glad she never went through with that plan.

2006 ends with a few days after Chrismukkah – about how lighthearted she felt after the coma. So I pick up 2007, which starts on January 2nd.

Holy fuck, is she trying to write some sort of porno? She's actually detailed _every single thing_ we did on New Year's Eve. Or, at least all the _dirty_ parts. Because of her 'everything but' clause, we hadn't actually had sex that night, but we definitely hadn't been saints. And now I'm reliving the entire night – she should start writing romance novels or something. Cause she's quite good at capturing… the mood. In detail. Fuck. Are we that dirty?

Apparently she thinks I have a 'talented' mouth, and she was 'relieved' when she saw me naked for the first time. Seems she thought my tendency to get into fights may have something to do with me being… poorly equipped.

I'd rather not think about it.

Although I should probably take it as a good sign that I seem to be the only guy she talks about in great detail. And that I'm the only guy who's sexual exploits she recounts _vividly_.

I kind of feel like photocopying this and sending it to Henri-Michel with some scathing note about how _he_ may have written a pseudo-pornographic book about her, but _she_ wrote one about _me_.

And hers isn't half made up.

Take that, smug French bastard.

_

* * *

_

review


	10. Day 10

_Oh this was so much fun to write... I hope you all enjoy the angsty/smutty goodness..._

_Also, someone (krisz? was that you?) mentioned that Flapjacks isn't in this story. He wasn't in 'Vegas', either. So first of all, thank you, for pointing out my giant plot-hole. Secondly... I have no friggen idea where Flapjacks is. Um... ok, roll with me here: Ryan couldn't take him to Berkeley, because they don't allow pets in the dorms. So he gave Flapjacks to Bullit to take care of for the semester. Bullit then set him free on his ranch in Texas. See? _

_Concrete, meet plot-hole._

_On with the story (and stop pointing out plot-holes, people!)_

_Music: oh yeah, all right, take it easy baby, make it last (make it last all night), she was an American girl._

* * *

I waited as long as I could after waking up to go visit Ryan. I'm pretty sure I lasted… oh, at least a half an hour.

I can't help it, though. I'm marrying the man in four days and it's almost a compulsion to go over and make sure he's _real_, not some figment of my imagination.

Not that I think I'm crazy enough to have hallucinated a boyfriend for almost seven years, but still.

Has it really been seven years? I guess technically it's more like three – that almost year we spent together before college, and little over two years since graduation. It doesn't seem like that long – probably because of the four year separation. Huh. We've been apart longer than we've been together.

I walk into our apartment, expecting to find him in the kitchen, having his usual morning of black coffee and cereal. But he's not there, which is weird, because he's always up by now. Maybe he's sick or something? He better not be sick – I refuse to have a sneezy husband on our wedding day. I'd better go make sure he's ok.

Much to my surprise, when I open the bedroom door, he's not sleeping. He's reading, sitting on the bed with books spread out around him and it doesn't look like he's slept at all.

"Ryan, what-" and that's when it hits me – that they're not regular books. They're not even books. They're diaries.

_My_ diaries.

He looks up at me, eyes dull – whether from lack of sleep or what he's read, I can't tell – but what the hell is he doing reading my diaries? I can feel it – the panic – building steadily, rising with maddening slowness until my heart starts beating wildly and my throat constricts. I'm trying to be angry, because – hello? – invasion of privacy much? But anger doesn't have much room to take hold, what with the absolute horror choking me. Because if he's read them from the beginning, and if the date on the current one in his hand is right, then he's read damn near everything.

_Everything_.

Things about him, things about Dean Hess, things about Henri-Michel, things about Marissa, things about my _mother_, things about the Cohens and Seth and Summer and high school and my dad, all my thoughts and feelings since I was fucking _fifteen_ except for the four year break during college where I'd been too bored and depressed to write anything.

He looks up at me, eyes dull, no shame or embarrassment or panic in his gaze.

"Ryan…" I start, choking on his name because my throat's too tight to say anything.

"You think I'm still in love with Marissa?"

Crap.

I was hoping he hadn't gotten to that part yet. And that's when the panic breaks and the anger floods its way through. "You read my diaries?" I hiss, ignoring his question because he has _no right_ to do this to me. Those are _my_ feelings, _my _thoughts, and he was never meant to read them.

"Taylor," he lets the thing drop to the bed, not taking his eyes off me, "I've read a lot of stuff in the past ten hours," – _ten hours?_ – "and this," he gestures down at the past year's journal, "I'm really hoping this is just pre-wedding jitters, or whatever they call it. Because if it's not – if you really think I'm still in love with someone else – then we have _much_ bigger things to talk about than me reading your diaries."

He waits for me to process that, waits for me to decide whether we have a bigger problem or not. "That's not fair," I argue lamely, completely avoiding the question. "You have no idea what I was feeling that day – you have no idea if maybe I was frustrated, or someone pissed me off, or we got in a fight, or-"

"Taylor," he cuts me off, rising off the bed, shaking his head because he wants an answer, "that's not the issue. The issue is you still wrote it, and if it's true…" I don't deny it, and he backs up a little, putting his hands up to rub at his temples. "Fuck, Taylor," I watch him close his eyes and start to pace, "we've been together for seven _fucking_ years, and you think I don't love you? I'm _marrying_ you, for fuck's sake."

"I know you love me," I cut in hurriedly, before he closes up and shuts himself off. He looks at me, disbelieving, and I know I have to say it, because it's all out there now. "But I can't help but think that you'll never love me like you loved her."

He stops, dropping his hands to the side, face going completely dead. "You're right."

Oh my God. Oh God… I can't breathe. I can't… oh God...

"I don't love you like I loved her. I love you like I love _you_." He moves forward, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into him as I try not to cry, because that was really painful for a second. "I'm not… I'm not good with words," well, no shit, "but… yeah. I loved Marissa. I loved her because… I can't explain why I loved her and I'm not gonna try, cause you wouldn't understand. You weren't there, you weren't us, so I'm not gonna try and make you understand _why_. Do you get that?"

I nod into his chest, not able to meet his eyes, because I'm actually really embarrassed. Because to be honest, I knew all this. I know he loves me, I know she's his past, I know she'll always _be_ his past, and there's nothing I can do about it.

* * *

I stare at the top of her head as she nods, but the empty feeling in my chest doesn't go away. Because I can't believe I have to explain this to her – I can't believe this is an issue.

Because Marissa has _nothing_ to do with this – with us.

_Nothing_.

Marissa was my past. I loved her and she loved me, but we never seemed to manage to do it at the same time, or with the same intensity, or with the same commitment. We never clicked. We were tragic and flawed and it was everything young love should be – doomed. We were doomed from day one, when she asked me for a cigarette – when we both tried to be cooler than we actually were to impress each other. We were doomed from the first fracture, when she asked me who I was – when I _told_ her exactly who I was, and she didn't believe me. Story of our entire relationship.

But this?

Taylor is my past, my present, my future. I knew – somehow, somewhere in the back of my head I always knew – that we'd work out from the beginning. I knew we'd work out from the first time she'd _gotten_ me – out behind the country club where she'd read my mind. I knew we'd work out from the first time she'd trusted me – looking at me like I couldn't do anything but _be_ trusted.

The problem here, I think, is that _I_ know all this. I know my feelings, but she doesn't, because I don't talk about them. It's just not what I do. But I keep forgetting that Taylor doesn't operate like me – she doesn't look at actions more than words – because it's words she needs. She _needs _people to tell her things, because she never heard them growing up. She'd never even been lied to when she was little, like I was – the _I love you's_ and _you can trust me_'s that turned out to be complete bullshit. That's where I learned to trust actions. But Taylor? She never heard any of that.

I open my mouth to say something, but I can't.

What the absolute _fuck_?

I can't get any words out _at all_.

It would be fine if I'd left it on a good note, but I left it on _yeah, I loved Marissa and I'm not telling you why_. Great job, Atwood. Way to be just… such a magnificent fuck up. She slowly starts to stiffen in my arms as the realization hits her that no, I'm apparently not saying anything else. And then she backs up, keeping her head down and fuck.

Fucking fuck.

Fuck.

I'm pretty sure I've used that word more these past two weeks than I have in my entire life.

"Ryan?" I meet her eyes and she raises her eyebrows: waiting. She looks desperate, trying to be patient with me.

"I love you?"

Oh, _fantastic_.

Really, that deserves a round of applause. Making it into a question? Brilliant.

Years from now, people will study my life to better understand the fine art of romance.

"_I love you?_" she hisses and suddenly there's a dull pain in my chest as she shoves me away. I stumble back a few steps as she whirls around and leaves the room.

It takes about four seconds for me to regain my senses – she's never actually done anything like that before – and I follow her out into the living area. "Taylor," I try to make my voice do that commanding thing. Which usually makes her stop and listen to me, but this time it makes her spin around, holding one finger up in warning and looking _pissed the fuck off_. "Look…"

"No, _you_ look," she damn near shouts, one hand on her hip, the other still pointed at me. "I have had just about enough of your non-verbal, non-committal shit, Ryan Atwood."

"Um…"

We both freeze, heads turning toward the kitchen, where Cody's in his pajamas, box of cereal held in one hand. "I think I'm gonna go ride my bike," he mumbles, setting the cereal on the counter and hurrying past us.

"Cody," I call after him, but he's already out the door. "Great. Just… fucking great," I run my hand over my face and it looks like my lack of sleep is finally catching up with me. "Way to scare him," I accuse, throwing my hands up. "I've been trying to convince him I'm _not_ like his parents. This was a great way to just… blow that plan to shit."

"Don't turn this on me," she warns. "This is so _far_ from my fault."

"I don't even know why you're angry!"

Well, that's a lie. She's angry because one, I read her diaries and two, I can't even tell her _why_ I love her. Oh, and three, I admitted to loving my ex-girlfriend. Which wouldn't be a bad thing normally, because there's nothing wrong with having loved Marissa, but I'm guessing it's a bad sign when I can admit I loved my ex when I can barely tell my fiancée that I currently love her.

"Why are you marrying me?" I freeze and the apartment goes eerily silent as the words hang over us. She waits – again – for me to answer, hands on her hips, looking resigned more than angry now.

"Because…" I start, but it trails off into silence.

"Because. That's… well, that's great, Ryan. _Because_ is a perfect reason to get married," she mutters, almost to herself, beginning to pace. "You know, in a poll of happily married people, all of them said that the reason they got married was _because_. I bet they would've saved some time if Harry could've just told Sally _because_, instead of having to go through that pesky list of _whys_. In fact, I'm sure _because_ could fix just every problem ever…"

"Taylor," I grind out, feeling the familiar tension start in my shoulders. "Just… stop, ok?"

"I think I need more of my stuff," she whispers, calming down and moving past me, going into the bedroom again. I resist the urge to punch the wall and follow her in. "Look, Ryan," she starts, not meeting my eyes as she roots through drawers, "if you can't come up with some reason why you want to marry me besides the fact that you're complacent in this relationship, then you're right, we do have bigger things to worry about than you reading my diaries."

"Taylor," I sigh, sitting on the bed and putting my head in my hands. I can hear her moving around the room, but I can't watch her pack up. Not again. "I'm not good with words…"

"You keep saying that," she laughs – verging on hysterics – and doesn't stop moving. "But you'd think you could _try_. For me. For this relationship. You'd think you could at least _try_."

I wish I could. I want to. And I have it all in my head – the list of reasons why I love her, why I want to marry her, why I _need_ her. But I know the minute I try to force them up through my throat, they'll get caught or tangled or translated into _idiot_. It'll come out wrong and she'll just get angrier.

"Where's my phone charger?" she whispers to herself, voice half broken and it makes me look up. Just in time to see her opening the drawer to my bedside table.

"Taylor."

"What?" she asks dully, rooting through the papers in there as I stand up and fuck, this is why we have our own – _separate_ – bedside tables. For stuff the other person shouldn't see. I move forward to grab the papers out of her hands, but I don't make it in time.

Her brow furrows, shifting through the papers slower, and she turns away from me as I try to rip them from her. I manage to get all but one away from her and - of course, because God loves me – it's the most important one. "Ryan, what…?"

I sigh, throwing the papers down on the bed as her eyes scan the oversized sheet in her hand. "You weren't supposed to find these," I offer as an explanation, but she doesn't look up. "I wasn't gonna tell you till they were done…"

"You're building me a house?" she whispers, finally looking up at me, her eyes huge and disbelieving. It's probably useless to try and deny it, what with her name being on the top of the floor plan sheet she's holding.

"Well, _planning_," I correct her, hand going to the back of my neck. "It can't be built until I get the actual plans done, but I found this piece of land… it's only twenty minutes from Sandy and Kirsten's place…"

"You're building me a house." This time it's a statement, and her eyes go back to the floor plans.

"I mean, only if you're ok with it. I was gonna run it past you before I started building. You know, in case you wanted your office someplace else…" her eyes flick to the little room labeled _Taylor's office_, and she's good enough at reading floor plans after seven years with me to see the giant bay window I've added, and the little note next to it explaining that it has to face west, so she can see the sun setting from it. "I um…"

I don't get to finish, because she drops the paper on the bed and catches me off guard as she flings her arms around my neck, lips finding mine, hands gripping my hair painfully, making me stumble back a few steps before I catch myself. My own hands going to her waist and it strikes me how well she fits in my arms. How right she feels.

I never actually got what Seth meant, all those times. He'd always said it and I always laughed it off: when he used to talk about 'the one'. I laughed it off because I don't believe in destiny. I don't believe in fate, or star-crossed lovers, or whatever the hell label people want to put on it. I don't believe that there's only _one_ right person for everyone.

I still don't, but right now I'm damn sure that no one would fit me as well as she does.

I try to let her know that, bringing my hands from her waist to hold her head as I kiss her – I try to let her know just… _everything._ All the things I can't actually say, all the things I can't put into words, all the things my own brain doesn't quite understand. Because _I love you_ isn't fucking enough. Suddenly, _I love you_ seems like the stupidest phrase ever created by man. How the hell can three little words… how can they expect someone to _know_… with just three fucking _words?_

The backs of my knees hit the bed and I fall back and she falls with me, the impact making our teeth clack together, but she doesn't stop kissing me, she doesn't stop, mouth moving from mine to my jaw, trailing a hot path down my neck to nip at my collarbone, her hands sliding up under my shirt, and she's _gone_. I know this side of her. She's absolutely gone – I doubt she has any thought process in her head except for me, which makes shivers run down my spine. I remember when she told me about this – how sometimes, when we're having sex she just… stops thinking, stops caring about anything else except me and getting her orgasm. Truthfully I didn't believe her at first, but… it's times like this when, yeah.

She's not thinking right now.

Fuck. I hate morals.

"Taylor," I groan as she grinds into me. My hands are shaking when I move them to her hips, pushing her off me – not so gently, because it's taking just about every ounce of willpower to do this.

To not let her continue.

She whimpers when she's on her back and I stand up. Her eyes catch mine for a brief – _wild_ – second before traveling down to where I'm obviously hard, and her hand stretches out for me. But I shake my head _no_, backing up – tripping, to be completely honest – as I stumble into the bathroom, pulling off clothes as I go.

I set the shower temperature to _holy fucking hell, Antarctica isn't even this cold_ and jump in, hissing in pain when it feels like I'm being stabbed by thousands of little icicles. And I'm surprised steam isn't rising off my skin – I feel like I'm burning up and the water's doing nothing and I just want to go back in there and…

But she's not thinking, so I have to. Only four more days. I can last. I don't want her gratitude – her relief – to overshadow her decision.

I press my back to the wall, the tiles warm compared to the temperature of the water, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, taking shallow, ragged breaths. There's a vague sound from in front of me, but it's the whimper that makes me take my hands away and open my eyes.

She's naked, watching me hungrily, moving forward, reaching for the knob, turning the temperature of the water up, stepping in with me…

"Taylor," I groan in protest as she buries her face in my neck, lips moving against the skin there. "No sex rule…"

"Shut up, Ryan," she whispers into me, like I'm a complete idiot. Which, maybe I actually am, because I'm turning down sex from my fiancée.

Except I'm not sure if sex is on the table here, so I close my eyes and tilt my head back to rest on the tile. I'm just going to let her do whatever the hell she wants with me. There's a movement and the sound of something opening, and suddenly it smells like peaches and cream and her hand travels down my stomach, sliding easily due to the body wash.

She keeps her face pressed into my neck, panting heavily as her hand wraps around my dick, pumping me as I arch out from the wall, lost in the sensation, because even though I've been jerking off near daily for the past two months, it's so much better when it's _her_ hand, when I have _her_ naked body pressed up against mine, when the smell of _her_ is all around me – all peaches and cream and sex.

"Oh, _fuck,_" I moan raggedly, swallowing compulsively and she hums into my skin in response. The water warms up, but it's barely noticable because all I can focus on is her slick body against mine, lips sucking the hollow of my throat, hand stroking me, running her thumb over the tip as my hips buck sharply.

My right hand lifts to tangle in her hair, the other clenched at my side as I moan – I'm not exactly sure what, but it's something, most likely her name, most likely mixed with curses, but it's definitely a moan, a warning, because I'm coming, and it's too soon – it's too fucking soon – it can't be ending, not now, not _ever_, it can't ever end, but it is, sooner than usual, sooner than I expected, it only feels like a second since she started but it's ending now, the clenching in my stomach, the tightening of all my muscles, the white hot release, the mind-scrambling blackout, the dull sense of awareness, the calm comedown, the lightheadedness, the lazy smile.

"I love you," she murmurs, so low I can barely hear it over the thrum of the water.

"I love you, too," I repeat, even though the words are stupid, even if they can never fully explain anything. But maybe those three words are a representation. An offering: _I can't tell you all the things, all the reasons, so I'm giving you this, these three words, in place of it._

"I know." She lifts her face from my neck, lifting her - clean - hand to the side of my face. "I'm sorry I went all psycho."

"It's ok," I wrap my other arm around her waist, resisting the urge to collapse, to pass out. I haven't been this relaxed in… a long time. I wonder what will happen when I actually get to fuck her again. I may pass out. "Sorry I'm an idiot."

"It's ok."

I can't help it – I start to laugh. Well, it's not so much a laugh as it is an exhausted chuckle, deep and low, and she starts to giggle with me. "I read your diaries and I get an orgasm for it."

"No," she starts off, still giggling. "You read my diaries and got a fight for it. Then you went all sweet and _perfect_ and got an orgasm for it."

"I'm far from perfect," I remind her, sobering up a bit at the thought.

I'm so very far from perfect.

"Not from where I'm standing," she drops her head back onto my shoulder with a sigh, seemingly content to just stand here with me under the spray of water, basking in my afterglow.

* * *

"We need to get him a cell phone," I ramble as we make our way to the front door. "So we can keep track of him. Why didn't we think of that? If we had, we could just call to find out where he is. He needs a cell phone. Oh! Can you Lojack a child? Like, one of those little beepy things?"

"Let's just see if we can look for him," he puts his hand on my back and opens the door for me. "Hopefully he stuck close."

He doesn't have to say what we're both thinking: _hopefully he didn't run away_. What had we been thinking? Arguing in front of him before he really got to know us? I hope he doesn't think we're horrible people – horrible parents. Parents who hit each other – and their children. We're not. It was just an unfortunately timed argument.

But it's ok, we have our explanation planned out – it's four days until our wedding, we just have some pre-wedding nerves. We're not normally like this. I know that we can explain this all to him.

We just have to find him first.

The sun is bright as we hurry down the stairs and from behind me I hear a low "fuck" escape Ryan's mouth, and then I see Cody – kicking the soccer ball around in what's supposed to be our apartment's backyard. He looks up at us, trapping the ball under his foot and waits for us to make it over to him.

"You guys done?" he asks, voice dull.

"Look," I start, "we're not normally like this. It's the wedding..." Cody smiles a little, looking over my shoulder at Ryan and when I turn around, I catch him, mid-eye roll. "Ryan!" I scold, elbowing him in the ribs and Cody ducks his head over a grin. I turn back to the boy, feeling the relief. "I'm just glad you didn't run away," I sigh and he looks up – startled.

"Want some breakfast now?" Ryan asks from behind me, looping one arm around my shoulders. Cody nods, bending down to pick up the ball. When he straightens out, he stops, giving us a weird look.

"Why is your hair wet?" I feel the blood rush to my face as Ryan clears his throat uncomfortably. Cody's face goes from confused to disgusted and he breathes an emphatic "_ew_." Then he shakes his head and moves past us, towards the stairs. "You guys are horrible role models," he informs us, taking the stairs two at a time.

"Hey!" Ryan calls after him, not sure if he should be offended or proud. Offended that his soon-to-be adopted son is disrespecting him, or proud that Cody obviously feels comfortable enough with us to do it. He seems to settle for _proud with a side of broody_ before heading up after our future son.

Son.

Good God, that'll take some getting used to.

_

* * *

_

review


	11. Day 11

_Ok, this chapter almost went into overdrive. I wrote all the Ryan parts first, and realized it was damn near the whole chapter. So Taylor actually doesn't have much face time in this one, but it's a build-up for something to come…_

_Dun dun duuunnnn…. (btw, that was 'impending doom' music, in case you were wondering)_

_Music: but my dreams, they aren't as empty as my conscience seems to be_

* * *

"You want me to _what?_" I whisper, trying to control the volume of my voice. He looks at me sternly, but I see the vague fear in his eyes.

"Just… take him out, ok?" he puts his hands on my shoulders and bites his lip a little. Ok, he needs to not do that. "Get to know him."

"I don't think I'm ready for that," I tell him, feeling the fear rise in my throat. "What if he hates me? Ryan, I'm _weird_. I think I should be chaperoned – at least for a little while. I mean, what if I take him out and I lose him? What if he runs away? What if I say something wrong? Can't he spend the day with you? You don't have to work today, right? He's bonded with you – and Seth! Give him to Seth…"

"Taylor," he interrupts. "I… if I'm gonna adopt him," he almost trips on the words, the idea, "then he'll be your son too."

Son.

Oh my God, I'm not ready for this.

"He's not gonna be just _my_ kid. He'll be yours too. _We'll_ be his parents."

Jesus, I can't handle this.

"I want him to love you like I love Kirsten." The last part is whispered, but he forces himself not to look away from me. And it's that admission that makes me nod. Because even though I know he loves Kirsten – and Kirsten knows he loves her – he doesn't say it. I'm not sure he's _ever_ said it – to her or to Sandy. Or even Seth. If he has, I wasn't around for it.

"But what if he doesn't…" I protest lamely, even though I know I'm done for. I can't say no to him when he's being all sincere.

"He will," he insists, smiling a little. "How can he not?"

Well, now I'm really screwed.

* * *

He came over twenty minutes ago and apart from the tension-filled greetings, we've said nothing. I guess I should start this.

"Maybe it's better if we don't talk about… back then," I tell him as we stand awkwardly in the kitchen. He nods, but I'm not sure what he's agreeing to. To be honest, I'm not sure what I meant. _Back then_ as in the whole Marissa episode, or _back then_ as in our childhood. I can't decide which I want to talk about less.

"I just… I kinda have to know," he starts warily – still a little nervous about asking something from me. "Why did you help me… _back then_?" He means the shooting thing this time, and I shrug.

"I felt guilty. I mean… we both stole the car," even if it was his idea, "and you spent almost two years in jail while I got…"

"A cabana mansion?" he smiles a little, but it drops when I don't smile back.

"I got a future." It's almost painful – the silence – as we both stand there. He looks guilty, and I watch his mouth start to open and I just _know_ he's going to say something like _you deserved it more than I did_. I know I did. But I don't want to hear it. "So I wanted to help you. Give you a chance at a future. You fucked it up."

"Yeah, I know."

Shit, is this what I do to people? This perpetually sullen guilt thing? It's… well, it's kind of annoying, because I don't _want_ to feel bad for him. I _like_ my righteous anger, and right now he's making me feel guilty again. I wish he wouldn't keep agreeing with me – trying so hard to make this right. Mom did it. Dad did it. What is it about me that makes them try so fucking hard to win me back? Mom and dad didn't go try to find Trey, they found me. Trey didn't go looking for them, he didn't call them when he got out of jail. He called _me_.

"So can I ask why you're giving me another chance?"

I sigh, turning to grab the pot of coffee and pouring myself another cup. I think Taylor's right; I'm addicted. He waits while I do this, and I know he's not going to talk again until I answer. The funny thing is, I know the answer. I know why I'm letting him come to my wedding, why I'm trusting him not to fuck it up this time around.

And it's not because of Taylor.

It's not because of Taylor's need for me to have as much family as possible, it's not because mom cried over the phone when I told her Trey'd be at the wedding too, it's not because dad looked so _proud_ when he saw Trey again for the first time in twenty years – God, that had been the most awkward dinner I've ever been at. All three of us guilty and nonverbal? It was horrible.

I turn back to him, taking a deep breath, because I'd never meant to tell him this – to tell anyone this.

"You were nineteen." He jerks his head up to look at me sharply – confused – but I stare down at my coffee mug. "You were nineteen – you could've gotten out of there." I watch the surface of the liquid move, and I'm only dimly aware that my hands are shaking. It happens whenever I have to talk about… it.

"I didn't have the money," he protests, voice low and a little scratchy, and I'm relieved I don't have to explain it to him.

"You had friends," I press on, not looking at him, "you had girlfriends, you had a million people you could've crashed with. It's not the money thing – I know it's not. Because it wouldn't've stopped me. I knew the day I turned eighteen – the _minute_ the system couldn't do anything about it – I'd leave. I'd get the hell out of there. You were nineteen and you stayed."

When I finally look up at him, I find him staring at the floor. God, we _suck_ at sharing our feelings. No wonder the Cohens are constantly frustrated with me – why Taylor's always saying I should open up more. I didn't think I was this bad.

"You needed me." He finally looks up and for the first time we lock eyes. He's not bragging, he's not trying to make me sound pathetic, he's not making stuff up.

He's damn right.

I needed him. Without him, it would've been me, mom, and AJ. It would've been me getting the shit beat out of me every night.

And it never hit me till now that that's why Trey used to say stupid shit to AJ – or whatever random boyfriend mom had. He'd say stupid shit to them, so they'd get angry at him. So they'd take it out on him.

So they wouldn't take it out on me.

Trey was an awful role-model. Most of the time, he was an awful older brother. He got me into more trouble than I would've gotten into on my own. He gave me my first cigarette, my first drink, my first hit. He took me to parties and tried to get me high and laid. He taught me how to steal cars. He got me arrested. He was pretty much the shittiest role-model a fifteen year-old could have, but he was my brother. He didn't let anyone fuck with me. When guys called me a queer for scoring well on tests and actually going to school, he'd beat the shit out of them. Of course, he'd go get me laid after that – just to make sure I wasn't. And he stayed in the house with mom and her angry boyfriends longer than he had to, to make sure I was ok.

"This is me saying thanks," I break the silence finally, looking down at my coffee mug again. "So don't fuck it up this time, because you don't have any other good deeds to warrant a third chance." I sense him nod, and it depresses me a little that I know him so well. Even after eight years apart, I still _know_ what he'll do.

"Are we supposed to hug or something?" He sounds hesitant, and I can't help but laugh. The Cohens hug out their problems. The Atwoods do not. He laughs too, sounding relieved, and I'm pretty sure we both feel a little lightheaded from the release of tension.

* * *

"So," I start awkwardly. "What would you like to do?" He shrugs, head ducked to the floor, and I think Seth may be right about the whole DeLorean theory. "I'm not good with children," I blurt out and way to go, me. He looks up.

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault," I sigh, shoulders dropping. "I just never know what to say. Or do. What do teenagers like to do?" I never got to do the whole _teenager_ thing, considering I hadn't had any friends or a life or freedom at the time. He shrugs again. Crap. Ok… common ground. Find common ground.

"Want to see where Ryan works?"

* * *

"So Jess Sathers, huh?" I change the topic, finally able to look at him for longer than five seconds.

"Yeah, she followed me to Vegas," he grins, eyes going a little hazy and I'm assuming he's thinking about it. "She dropped out of high school and came to find me. I put her up for a while. But I told her she needed to get a job, cause I could barely take care of myself then. I couldn't handle taking care of her, too." I nod, because I know that feeling. Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if Marissa hadn't been so dependent. In high school, I couldn't take care of myself, how was I supposed to take care of her, too?

It's why Taylor and I work. It's why we worked when I was being a recluse after Marissa died. Yeah, Taylor had problems, but she took care of herself and she took care of me. She let me take care of myself, and she let me take care of her. It was the first relationship I'd ever been in where it was mutual. It wasn't me taking care of her – _Marissa, Lindsay_ – and it wasn't her taking care of me – _Theresa, Sadie_.

"So she got a job," he continues, not seeing my little thought tangent. "And eventually she got her GED – made me get mine, too." Which startles me, and I look up at him. He'd dropped out of high school in tenth, mom had let him because she didn't feel like fighting with him about it. I can't help but smile at him, and he realizes I didn't know that about him and he blushes a little. He still seems embarrassed about being… successful. Maybe he thinks I'll treat him like the guys in Chino would've – making fun of him for thinking he could go somewhere. "She works at a bar," he goes on, pretending like he doesn't notice me being proud of him, "she's in a manager training program there. I… um, I still deal – cards," he amends quickly, "I still deal _cards_, but I'm… um, I'm taking some classes at the local community college…"

He stops there, waiting for me to either tell him I'm proud of him, or tell him he's an idiot for thinking he can do college. I think he's dreading either one, so I take another route. "Mom'll freak when she finds out," I grin at him, and he looks startled for a second, before grinning back and _thank God_. I can handle that grin. I can handle _I don't give a fuck_ Trey. I can't handle new and improved Trey just yet. It's all a little overwhelming. "She'll probably go out and buy you a cake or something."

"Jesus it'll be weird seeing her again," he shakes his head, as if it's finally hitting him.

"Like it wasn't weird seeing dad?"

"Fuck," he breathes, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck in wonder. "Who would've thought, huh? But I guess if anyone could bring the family back together, it'd be you. You always were the golden boy," he explains and I'm relieved there's no anger or jealousy in his voice. Because truthfully, mom never really hid the fact that she liked me better. But maybe he's not jealous because the only reason she liked me better when we were kids is because I was her best chance at getting money. She always said I'd be '_something'_ – I was never quite sure what _something_ meant, probably a manager at McDonalds. She saw me as future money.

"It wasn't me," I shrug it off, trying to make the situation light again. "I mean, the whole mom thing was. She came to find me. But dad? The only reason he's here is because the Cohens and Taylor and Julie pushed me into seeing him. Oh, then Julie got knocked up, which didn't help. And the only reason you're here is cause of Taylor…"

"Fuck, I can't believe I have a little brother," he doesn't react to my admission that I hadn't wanted him here. "I mean," he backtracks, looking guilty, "_another_ little brother."

"Yeah. If it makes you feel any better, I went from having one brother, to having three brothers and a sister in the span of four years."

He laughs at that, loudly, and I feel myself start to grin.

* * *

"Miss Townsend!" I start to grin when Branson sees me. Cody and I just came in the lobby, and he happened to be standing there. He says something to the man he'd been talking to and makes his way over. "Although I guess I should get used to calling you Mrs. Atwood, huh?" He grabs me into an enthusiastic hug and I start to giggle – partly because the man's such a bundle of energy and partly because he said _Mrs. Atwood_. "Who's this?" he pulls back and looks at Cody.

"This is Cody," I introduce warily.

"Hey," he greets, barely meeting Branson's eyes and shifting uncomfortably. He must know that I don't know how to properly introduce him. And I don't. What am I supposed to say? _This is some random kid Ryan decided to take care of?_ He shakes Branson's hand nervously, shooting a quick _does she approve?_ look at me before looking at the ground again.

"He's my… son." I don't know why I said it, but I did and Cody snaps his head up to look at me and even Branson looks startled – he must've done the math in his head. "We adopted him. Or, we're _going_ to adopt him, once we're married and get the paperwork filled out."

To my surprise, Branson grins, shaking his head. "Go figure," he mutters, starting to chuckle. "Go figure Atwood would pile more onto his plate."

"What do you mean?" I can't help but start to giggle, because the man's just so… charming.

"The wedding, that Casetti woman, a kid…" he shakes his head.

"What?" I ask, because Ryan's never mentioned her.

"Oh," he shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second. "I feel bad giving the project to him," he continues regretfully, "I mean, I had _no_ idea she'd run him this ragged."

What? Run him ragged? Why haven't I heard of her? Cody must sense my confusion, because he looks between me and Branson. Who, apparently, has no idea I don't know about the woman. "She is horrible, isn't she?" I lie, like Ryan's told me all about her.

"I just hope she gets tired of jerking the poor boy around – changing her mind all the time, asking for impossible things. I mean, the honeymoon's the most important part of the wedding." The seeming topic change throws me for a second. How did we get from Ryan's job to the honeymoon?

And then it hits me.

"He's told me he's really looking forward to going, and I hope he gets the papers signed."

"Yeah," I manage to get out – somehow, because I can't seem to breathe. "That would suck if he couldn't make it to his own honeymoon because he has to work."

I think '_suck_' puts it mildly.

* * *

We're both doubled over, laughing hysterically for absolutely _no fucking reason_. "Fuck," he gasps out, trying to wipe tears from his eyes. "Our lives are so fucked up."

"I know," I agree, calming down a bit. "And the saddest thing is, I don't really notice it until I have to explain it to someone."

"I mean, how ridiculous is this all? Two abused kids from Chino steal a car. One goes to prison, the other gets adopted by a rich family. It's like some sort of sick drama."

"Fuck," I find myself mimicking him, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck. "I fucking adopted a kid."

"We're so fucked up."

"Fuck."

"Would you two stop saying 'fuck'?" We both whirl around to find Taylor standing there, hands on her hips, with the strangest expression on her face.

"How long have you been there?"

"I came over to tell you I booked the band you wanted, so I fired that asshole DJ, only to find you two laughing." She lifts one eyebrow, silently asking me why she's never seen me laugh like that before. I shrug, still rubbing the back of my neck, hoping she doesn't get mad at me. I know she has a problem with me not opening up – I hope she doesn't think I go around 'opening up' to everyone but her. Instead she shakes her head indulgently, moving into the kitchen to put a stack of papers on the table. Then she leans up and kisses me on the cheek before turning to Trey. "I never got to ask you, chicken, fish or vegetarian?"

"For the reception," I tell him, off his confused look.

"Chicken. For both of us." His response is automatic and for some reason it makes me smile. It's kind of nice that he knows what Jess would want to eat. I wasn't too fond of the girl – what with her drug habits and the way she constantly hit on me – but who says people can't change? Trey seems to have. And look at Summer. I've never seen anyone change as radically as she has – from drunken, jock-chasing bimbo to grounded, environment-saving wife and soon-to-be mother.

"Where's Cody?" I ask, suddenly remembering.

"Outside," she turns and beams at me, face lighting up. "Playing with that old soccer ball we found under the stairs…" I watch her face soften as she looks at me and I can't help but be relieved, because she looks so proud. There's no way in hell I'm getting through this parenting thing alone – I need her here. So thank God she looks proud, because she doesn't look scared anymore.

"You sure he's not your kid?" Trey makes a face – more relaxed, apparently, because he's not afraid to make fun of me anymore.

These past two weeks have been fucking _weird._

Fuck.

_

* * *

_

review


	12. Day 12

_Just know that I finished writing this chapter at 2:27 in the morning while watching a muted South Park episode and listening to Bell Biv DeVoe. I'm telling you this because I'm strung out on sugar and running on very little sleep. It actually has nothing to do with the chapter._

_But enjoy._

_Also, this is vaguely for aqiran, who reminded me that I haven't paid attention to Vegas in a while..._

_Music: that girl is poison…_

* * *

I don't want to answer the door. It's early in the morning – too early in the morning for visitors – and I'm just wondering who it can be this time.

I mean, _really_. There's way too many people coming to this wedding, who I _never_ thought would actually be there – Trey, my dad, my mom, my new adoptive son, Jess Sathers. It's just… I can't help but expect the worst as I reach for the door handle, hesitating for a second to pull it open.

To be honest, I wouldn't be the least surprised if it were… I don't know, Luke Ward or fuck, even _Oliver_ standing there.

But it's not. It's just Taylor's mom, so – wait. What the fuck is Taylor's mom doing here?

"It's about time," she sniffs, moving past me into the apartment, barely even looking at me. I stand in stunned silence for a second before closing the door and walking back to the kitchen to reclaim my cup of coffee. She pauses in the living area, sweeping her gaze over the apartment with one eyebrow quirked, like she does every time she visits.

"Taylor's not here." Well, that's just about the rudest greeting ever. But I hate having to be polite to the woman. I've known Taylor for – what, seven years now? – and she's said about three things to me in that entire time. Not that I mind or anything…

"I'm not here for Taylor," she says, finally looking at me. "I'm here to stop… _this_," she waves her hands vaguely around her. "I mean, I'm surprised she's taking the joke this far," she continues, like she's talking about the weather, swiping a finger across the table next to the couch and looking at it, crinkling her nose, like it's dirty or something. Which it's totally not, because Taylor compulsively cleans this apartment every three days like clockwork.

And now I know why.

Wait.

"What joke?" I grit out, leaning forward on the bar diving the kitchen and living areas.

"This whole 'wedding' thing," she makes air quotes, like it's nothing, still looking around the apartment and not at me. "She's taken it too far, so I came to ask you to tell her to drop the act before she embarrasses herself too much."

"You think this is a joke?" I deadpan at her. I'm not actually that surprised.

She turns to me, looks me over, then raises one eyebrow and smiles condescendingly. "Oh God," she laughs lightly, "she actually has you fooled." Um… what? "You _actually_ think she loves you?" Apparently this is hilarious, because she starts to laugh, almost silently, holding her stomach. She's playing it up – I get that – but it still doesn't make this any less annoying. I don't defend myself, though. I don't _need_ to defend myself, and I'm not giving the woman the satisfaction of having me fight back. She'd just throw it in my face. "She's just using you," Veronica calms down, shaking her head at me like she's _sorry_ for me.

"Uh huh." I'm not sure whether that was supposed to be an agreement or a question, but it's the most non-committal noise I can make. She smiles again.

"I'm sure you're… _nice company_, Mr. Atwood," she gives me this _look_, like I'm supposed to know what the hell _nice company_ means. And when did she start calling me '_Mr. Atwood'_ and not '_Hey, Delinquent'_? "A nice way to pass the time," she clarifies, eyes looking… _down_, and ew. Wait, that's actually insulting… "I'm sure you're a nice way to pass the time," she repeats, stepping towards me and patting me on the shoulder comfortingly, "but you're not husband material. Taylor knows that."

"So she made up a marriage story to… what? Piss you off?"

Why the hell am I engaging this woman in conversation? I should just… I don't know, hit her over the head with the lamp and dump her body out back? Taylor may not appreciate that too much.

She hates when I spill things on the carpet and blood is damn hard to get out.

"Ryan, I- hey…" Cody comes out into the kitchen, running his hand through his hair. Sometimes I think he's like Kirsten – like he has radar that tells him to show up at the worst possible time.

"You have a kid?" Veronica's eyes go wide, like she's just stumbled upon buried treasure. But seriously, what is it with people assuming Cody is my son? Do I look that old? Or maybe people just can't do math.

It wouldn't surprise me if Veronica couldn't do math.

"Cody," I infuse my voice with warning, hoping he'll get it and go back in his room, "this is Veronica Townsend. She's Taylor's mom."

"Oh." _Thank God_, I think when Cody stiffens, noticing my tone. "It's nice to meet you. I'm just gonna go play some soccer… outside…" he makes for the door, but Veronica stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Hold on a second… Cody, is it?" He nods, warily, not meeting her eyes. "How is it that you know Ryan? If you're not his son, of course. Another long-lost relative?" Her eyes flick up to me triumphantly, "a cousin he took pity on because your parents are in jail? I mean, it seems like _all_ the Atwoods have been to jail at _some_ point."

Cody looks startled, eyes flicking to me, and crap, I hadn't told him that yet. I'd told him that my dad had been to prison for theft, but I left out the violence, the domestic abuse. I left out the fact that mom had been in jail a few times for public drunkenness. I'd mentioned Trey stealing a car and getting sent to prison for a few years. I left out the fact he tried to rape a girl and was subsequently shot by her.

And I definitely left out my little stints in Juvie – and Seth and my mistake last year.

I was gonna break that to him slowly, because the last thing he needs is to think I'm just some asshole who's gonna let him down.

All three of us turn when the front door opens and Taylor walks in, looking hassled. "Mother." It's not a greeting or a question – just a stunned observation.

"Taylor," her voice goes cold.

"What are you doing here?" Cody and I watch her come in, setting her purse down warily and moving toward the kitchen and me. But she stops when she sees Veronica's hand on Cody's shoulder and instead, moves toward him.

"I just came by to talk to your _fiancée_," the word drips coldly from her and Taylor tenses up. "And much to my surprise, I see he's taken in some sort of delinquent." She nods toward Cody, who ducks his head and I feel the anger rise in me.

"Get out."

Cody looks up and he stares at Taylor in surprise – which is pretty much what I'm doing. I've never heard her voice so… _angry_? No, she's been angry at me before – good God, has she been angry at me before. I've heard her rant, I've heard her angry, but I've never heard her with this much _hate_ in her.

Apparently neither has Veronica, because the woman retracts her hand from Cody and glares at her daughter. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Taylor's voice is a low whisper, but it sounds loud in the silence of the apartment. "I don't know what you're doing here – I don't care. This is my home. So get the _hell_ out."

"Maybe you should become a lawyer," Veronica spits back, grabbing her purse off the side table, "since you're so concerned with defending felons."

There's a small gasp from Cody as Taylor's hand makes contact with her mom's face, and something in my head whispers _oh shit_.

"Don't you _dare_ talk about my fiancée like that," Taylor hisses, eyes narrowing and finger pointing at the other woman. "_Or_ my son. Get out and take your venom with you, you bitch."

* * *

I'm shaking badly in the dead silence, staring at the space my mother had vacated, not even flinching when the door slams shut. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cody staring at me with wide eyes, and across the apartment, I can _sense_ Ryan watching me. He's waiting, trying to decide whether I need him, or space.

"Cody," he keeps his voice low and the boy looks away from me. "Why don't you go outside and play some soccer? Just make sure she's gone before you go." Cody nods once, ducking his head and walking past me.

I don't miss his whispered '_thanks'_ as he goes.

He peeks out the door and we all hear the car start up. The door shuts behind him with an ominous _click_, leaving Ryan and me alone.

"You ok?"

I don't answer him immediately, instead thinking the question through. I'm _physically_ all right – except for the stinging in my hand and the uncontrollable shaking. I just don't get how a mother could be so hateful. And I'm not exactly sure why I called Cody my son – for the second time. Right in front of him. It's weird. He still doesn't _feel_ like my son. If anything he feels more like a legal obligation but… with my mother being the bitch that she is and calling him a felon, there was just this… rush of affection for the boy.

"Yeah," I answer finally – sounding the word out slowly, like I'm saying it for the first time. When I finally look over at him, it's like some of the fog that's been over my head lately has lifted. "I have something I have to do." I tell him, grabbing my purse and completely forgetting the reason I came over here in the first place.

Cody watches me silently as I rush down the stairs and get into my car. I give him a smile and a wave as I pass and he seems confused that I'm not angry at him.

I'm not.

I'm ok.

* * *

"That was scary."

"I've never seen her like that."

We both sit there and don't say anything else. We don't drink our coffee, we don't eat our cereal.

He's only thirteen – he shouldn't be drinking coffee, but it always settles my nerves and I think the situation calls for it.

Plus, it's better than the pack of cigarettes I'd found him busting out when I went outside to check on him. I gave him a lecture about how bad smoking is for your lungs – how it makes you smell and how girls don't like boys who smell. I took the cigarettes away from them with a stern look and sent him inside for breakfast.

And then I went into the alley by the dumpster and smoked them.

Three of them.

I'm gonna be a horrible father.

Fuck – she'd called him her _son_.

I mean, I know we're gonna adopt him and all, but he still feels like more of a little brother type deal than my _son_.

But he doesn't need an older brother. He needs a father. And a mother. He needs parents that'll love him and discipline him and support him.

At least we know he has a mother that'll defend him

* * *

Newport hasn't changed much and it reminds me just how much I _don't_ miss it.

But the salt in the air brings me back eight years ago to the day I started living. And no, I'm not talking about the first day I met Ryan, or the first time I kissed him.

In fact, the day I started living has very little to do with him.

It was the day I first stood up to my mother – the day I went into the Harbor 'court room' with the petition full of signatures and sat down between Seth and Summer in my _free Marissa_ t-shirt.

The petition wasn't about Marissa. The t-shirt wasn't about Marissa. It was about Seth and Summer and the way I finally felt like a human being.

Which brings me back to why I'm here.

To deal with her.

* * *

"Atwood."

I squint in the sunlight and try to hide the cigarette behind my back, but it doesn't quite work out, what with the smoke curling up and giving me away. "Hey Chris."

"I wanna thank you again for helping out with those contracts the other day. You saved my _ass_." He runs his hands over his face with a sigh and pulls out his own pack of cigarettes and lights one up. "Have you always smoked?"

"Used to when I was a kid," I tell him, putting the thing back to my lips and taking a drag. "Then a bit in college. And… currently, as of this morning."

"Wedding jitters?" he grins, flicking the ash to the concrete below us. Traffic whizzes by and I kind of hope the Cohens aren't out in the city today, cause they try to stop by my work and visit me when they are. The last thing I need is them seeing me smoking again. They hadn't found out about the college thing, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Taylor's been lording that over my head for three years. Uses it to get her way when she's losing a fight.

I like it better when she uses sex to get her way.

"Had a run-in with Taylor's mom," I confess.

"Ooh, mother-in-law," he pretend shivers, which gets a smile out of me. Sometimes it's nice to talk to someone outside the Atwood-Cohen-Roberts-Townsend-Cooper-Bullit clan. Jesus, that's a lot of last names. I remember when it had just been the Atwood clan. Maybe it's a sign of how well my life is going – the amount of names I have tacked on. "Let me guess," he continues, "she's real protective and doesn't think you're good enough for her daughter?"

And that gets a laugh. "She hates Taylor. But she hates me more, and she just _loves_ rubbing my past in my face."

"When I married Ashley, her dad came in and punched me for 'deflowering' his daughter before the wedding."

"Ouch."

"I didn't tell him I hadn't deflowered shit. She was no virgin when she met me."

"I think some people just need someone to blame," I shrug, and he nods. But the statement doesn't seem to have the same resonance that it does with me, and it makes me smile because he obviously didn't have the childhood I did.

It's always nice when I find someone untouched by tragedy.

* * *

"Who did you say you are?" the woman frowns at me from behind the counter.

"I'm her daughter," I repeat, resisting the urge to tap my foot. That, or slip into Newport mode and bitch her out. I feel the dragging urge to be a horrible human being. Now I remember why I'm glad I left this place.

"Alright," the attendant says warily, stepping out from behind the counter. "She's in the mud room, I'll go ask if she'd like to see you."

Crap.

Crappity crap, crap, crap.

The woman disappears for a really long time and I almost run out. She'll never let me in now, no matter what story I feed her. Finally she comes out and smiles at me. "Your mom says she'll see you now."

Seriously?

That's unexpected.

* * *

"So no Ms. Casetti today?" Branson – much to my surprise – has joined us outside with his own cigarette. I knew he smoked, but I just assumed he wouldn't do it out on a public street.

"Nah, she '_gave me the day off'_." That earns a laugh from Branson and Chris – Chris a little nervously now that one of the senior partners is out here with us. "I think she's just procrastinating to see if she can actually make me cry."

"You cry?" Chris shoots at me and Branson barks out a laugh. I glare at the two, trying to convey that it was just an expression.

"She hasn't signed off?" Branson gets serious and I sigh.

"No. But she can't come up with anything else to add or any other arguments to make, so now she's just avoiding me. Sometimes I wonder if she knows about my wedding or something, cause I don't get why she's dragging this out."

"Cause she's a bitch?" Chris offers.

"Because she's from Newport," I correct him grimly, looking out across the street at the Starbucks. "People in Newport'll do anything to prove they have control over you."

"Sounds like a joyful place."

* * *

The attendant gestures toward the woman caked in mud before leaving the private room. I wait nervously by the door as it clicks shut behind her and then there's silence.

Finally a sigh and the figure on the lounge lifts her hands to peel the bag off her eyes to look at me.

"So who the hell are you?"

"I'm sorry," I start, "I know you were expecting your daughter-"

"I don't have a daughter," she cuts in, snapping her fingers. "So just tell me who you are and why you're insisting on interrupting my spa day."

"I'm Taylor Townsend," I introduce myself, not moving from my spot by the door. She lifts an eyebrow.

"Veronica's daughter? Did she send you here? What imaginary slight have I committed against her this time?" She sighs again, leaning back and closing her eyes.

"I'm not here for my mother. I'm here for my fiancée."

"Are you the one marrying Chip Saunders?" her brow furrows, but she doesn't sit up or open her eyes. "Look, just tell him I'm sorry for backing into his car. I already said I'd pay for the damages."

"I'm not marrying Chip- wait, you backed into his car? The Mustang?" He'd had that car in high school – fawned over the stupid thing like it was a human being. He paid more attention to the car than he did whatever current girlfriend.

"Yes, the Mustang. So if you're not here for him, which bobblehead is it?" That makes me giggle, so I move in further, sitting on the chair next to the lounge.

"He's not a bobblehead," I smile. "His name's Ryan Atwood."

She pauses, then sits up and opens her eyes. "He's getting married? Shame." She sighs, turning an appraising eye on me. "Let me guess, he's told you all about me, and you've come to tell me to stop picking on him?" She flashes a smile that tells me she's doing no such thing.

"No, _Ms._ Casetti," I put on my own Newport smile. "I had to hear about him being overworked from his boss, and I came here to tell you that you'd better sign the release forms within the next two days."

"Oh?" she asks, like she's not insanely interested in _why_.

"He probably hasn't told you – if you hadn't noticed, he's not much of a talker – but we're getting married on Saturday. And then Sunday we leave for our honeymoon, and, well, it's really not a honeymoon if the groom isn't there because he's stuck working for a woman that has too much time on her hands."

"I'm sorry, are you threatening me?" she laughs, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes glinting with amusement. I smile back, feeling high school me take over.

"Look, I may not live in Newport anymore, but I'm _quite_ sure I could make your life miserable. Even if you take out the part where I'm insane and I've been put on numerous terrorist alert lists, you still have the fact that my soon-to-be in-laws are Sandy and Kirsten Cohen. My best friend is Summer Roberts, daughter of Neil Roberts. My _very_ good friend is Julie Cooper-Nichol, and there's a man named Gordon Bullit – maybe you've heard of him? owns Texas? – who's quite fond of me. Also add in the fact that your previously stated boring life depends heavily on the social scene here in Newport, and I think you'd better just do what I ask."

"And what is that?" she asks stiffly.

"Stop being such a giant bitch and give Ryan a break. He's trying to help you, and you're just making it harder for him for your own sick amusement." I stand up and head for the door, pausing just before I open it. "Remember: if Ryan isn't on the plane Sunday morning, know that I will spend the two weeks I'm _supposed_ to be on my honeymoon stalking you around Newport and defaming you to everyone I meet." Then I turn and flash her one more smile. "Have a great day, Ms. Casetti."

* * *

I keep the windows open the entire drive home, hoping the rush of air will take away the smell of cigarettes as I pop another mint into my mouth.

Shit.

I shouldn't smoke. I mean, not only do I have to worry about Taylor and the Cohens bitching me out about it, but _now_ I have to worry about being a good role model.

_For our son_, my head whispers snarkily.

This must be why pregnancy lasts nine months – so males can adjust to the idea of being a father. Maybe that's why adoption takes so long to go through. I don't think I'd be this terrified if Taylor were pregnant, or if we were going through the system in a regular adoption. Cody's won't take long, what with Sandy Cohen being on the case and the mother ready and very willing to sign the papers.

It's too fast. For me, probably for Taylor, definitely for Cody.

When the Cohens took me in, it didn't even register that I had a new family until about three weeks in. But Cody… he doesn't have all the shit that went on like I did. He didn't get arrested, burn down a house, have to deal with the confusing girl next door. I just took him home one day and kept him.

As horrible as it sounds, I wish he had more drama to distract him. Because all he has to think about now is that his mom doesn't want him. He has to think about how he has to start a new life, in a new school, with a new family.

When I get home I rush past Cody – sitting on the couch playing video games – so I can go change before he can smell the stale smoke on me. I even stop by the bathroom and take a quick shower, just in case, brushing my teeth when I get out.

It's only then that I venture into the living room.

I sit on the couch with him and we play GTA for a while in silence. I'm not sure how to bring this up.

"Do you have any friends in the city?" I start, a little warily. San Francisco's only a half hour away across the Bay, but for a thirteen-year-old, it's a long way on a bike.

"Some," he shrugs, and I feel my heart sink when he doesn't sound depressed that he hasn't seen them for a while.

"Any good ones?" I want him to know I'll do anything in my power to keep him in touch with them – _if_ he wants me to, and _if_ they're good kids. He shrugs again, the action so lukewarm that I know he doesn't have any good friends. Probably just kids he hung out with to get away from his mom. "Maybe you could do something this summer," I suggest casually. I don't wanna freak him out. "Like a camp or something."

"Camp." It's a statement, monotone, but I detect some sadness in there. He thinks I'm trying to get rid of him already.

"Like a day camp," I continue, "so you don't have to stay here alone while I'm at work and Taylor's… not living here. You could meet kids your own age and make some friends before school starts up." The mention of school jolts him a little – like it's just hitting him that I mean this to be long-term. "How about soccer camp?" I suggest. I know there's one nearby – Taylor had suggested I coach, but work didn't allow the schedule. Which was a shame because the job paid well and I never get to play anymore.

And sending him there will be expensive.

But suddenly I _want_ him to go there – to meet kids that are normal, suburban kids. I'm thinking of sending him to a private school in the fall – Sandy said he'd help out with tuition if Taylor and I couldn't handle it.

"School," he repeats, fumbling a bit in the game.

"Yeah. And I think you should make some friends with the kids around here if you'll be going to their school in a couple months."

"Oh."

I sigh and pause the game, which confuses him. We put the controllers on the table and I turn to face him, which – through common courtesy – makes him turn to me as well.

"Alright," I start, feeling the familiar tension fill me. "I think I should start telling you… well, everything."

"Ok…" he trails off, obviously not sure where this is going. To be honest, I'm not really sure where this is going, but maybe if he hears my story, it'll help him realize that he has potential. That he has a future.

"When I was fifteen," I start out, the muscles in my shoulders tightening, "my brother and I got bored. He thought it'd be fun if we stole a car…"

_

* * *

_

reviews equal love


	13. Day 13

_Ok, this chapter is a little all over the place. But I tried to end it on a light note, so there's that._

_Enjoy._

_Music: Lord knows I can't change_

* * *

"Oh, my baby!"

She rushes forward and throws her arms around him before she even gets into the apartment. He hugs her back – tentatively – and it's obvious she's much more into this than he is. Luckily, she stays clueless.

"Hey ma," he rasps out when they break apart. She grins, moving past him into the apartment as he shakes the hand of a very large, very tattooed man. Ron, I think his name is.

"You must be Taylor," she gasps, coming towards me and catching me in a hug. Which surprises the hell out of me, because I've never met the woman. We've exchanged a few emails, but only so I could get pictures of Ryan for his twenty-fifth birthday party. I'd called it his quarter-century party... he hadn't been too thrilled. But in the eight years I've known Ryan, I've never met his mother – I was too busy with my own stuff at high school graduation and I was in France when he graduated Berkeley, so I didn't meet her then, either. She lets me go, but keeps her hands on my shoulders, looking me over. "You're beautiful," she whispers proudly, tears welling up and for the first time in my life, I'm speechless.

"Taylor, this is my mom, and Ron, her husband," Ryan interrupts – introducing us like we're all idiots. Like I don't know this is his mother. Like she doesn't know I'm Taylor.

"You didn't tell me she was so pretty," Dawn turns to her son, sniffling a little. I can see the shock on Ryan's face – like he's still amazed his mom loves him. Even after all these years, he still doesn't believe it. Maybe because he's only seen her three times in that time, but still. She calls him at least once a month and holidays and his birthday. She'd sent him pictures of her quickie wedding to Ron.

I haven't told him I know he keeps them in a little box in his bedside table drawer, along with pictures from his childhood. My hands have been itching to make them into a scrapbook since I found them, but I want to respect his privacy. Or something like that.

But right now he still looks stunned, so I need to snap him back before he starts to freak his mom out. "Oh?" I ask her, trying to sound offended, "he told you I was hideous?"

Her eyes go wide with fear. "Oh, no, he… I…"

"She's joking, ma," he cuts in, glaring at me.

"I have a tendency to do that," I agree, giving Ryan a grin in response to his glare. "I keep forgetting that Atwoods aren't good at sarcasm."

"You'll be one of us soon," he threatens, holding up a warning finger as he walks into the kitchen. "Mom, Ron, you guys want anything to drink? Eat?"

"I have lemonade!" I pipe up enthusiastically. "I made it fresh this morning, because Ryan told me you'd be coming over and I wanted to make sure the kitchen was properly stocked and-" he comes up behind me and wraps a hand around my mouth, shutting me up.

"Lemonade's fine," Dawn laughs, eyes flicking between her son and me, like she's trying to fit us together.

We get that a lot.

* * *

The wedding rehearsal goes by in a blur.

And when I say a blur, I don't mean a _fast_ blur. I mean everything's blurry, but it drags on, because I'm nervous and everyone's watching me. I can't imagine what it'll be like when all the guests arrive, if I'm this nervous now, in front of my family.

It doesn't help that mom is off to the side, crying like it's the actual wedding, Ron patting her back. Dad sits a couple rows behind her with Julie and Kaitlin and Matthew, seemingly unfazed by the ex-wife he used to hit. Trey's sitting in the back row with Jess, keeping his eyes locked firmly on me and not our parents.

God, we're just a bundle of denial.

I think that's how everyone's trying to deal with this wedding: denial.

Which is actually kind of nice, cause I'd rather not have to go through all the drama, but it's a little freaky, too. The Atwoods haven't all been in the same room in almost twenty years – since dad went to prison. I'm not used to all of us being together with no screaming or pain or… well, alcohol. I can't believe mom and dad have been sober for this long. Trey, too.

On Taylor's side of the aisle, the Cohens sit. Veronica refused to come to the rehearsal – although she swears she'll be at the actual wedding – I'm assuming to try and make everyone as miserable as possible. But Taylor doesn't have a lot of family coming to the wedding and I have family falling from the fucking sky every time I turn around, so the Cohens decided to sit on her side. Sandy and Kirsten watch us proudly, Seth with his arm around Summer as she rubs her belly. Sophie squirms in her seat. Bullit and Katie sit a little farther back, snuggling up together. Next to Bullit is Cody.

I'm going to ignore the fact that the man is probably corrupting my future son with some horrifying story about Japanese hookers or something.

* * *

Ryan kind of zombies his way through the rehearsal.

Although, to be honest, I didn't expect anything else. That's how he handles change. And fear. And stress. And happiness.

But I pay attention, making sure every little detail is right. My wedding will be perfect, thank you very much.

Afterwards we head back to the Cohen's – all million and one of us. Seriously, when did our numbers get this big? There's the Cohens: five; the Atwoods: six; the Coopers: two; and the Bullits: two. Oh, and Cody, but I'm not sure if he's an Atwood, a Cohen, or a Townsend. Probably an Atwood. Maybe a Cohen. I won't let him be a Townsend.

And then there's also Ryan and me, which adds up to a grand total of eighteen people. In one house.

We don't have a sit down dinner, just food that you can grab easily and put on plates and eat standing up. Dawn and Frank keep to separate rooms – not so much in anger or hate, but just to avoid confrontation and be respectful. Dawn's in the dining room and Frank's in the living room. Trey stays planted firmly in the middle - in the kitchen - with Jess on his arm.

I had noticed it before; the way she hangs onto him. At first I thought she was just claiming her property, and later I thought she was needy, but now I see the way he loosens up a bit every time she hugs his arm tighter. Like she's pulling the tension from him and taking it into herself.

And it makes me wonder; if all these people can change – Frank, Dawn, Trey, Jess – why can't my mom? Maybe because all their problems and violence stemmed from alcohol and drugs.

My mom's just a bitch on her own.

I'm not sure why I'd been hoping she'd show up today. You think I'd have learned by now.

* * *

"You doing ok?" I whisper into the back of her head as I lean my hands on the counter, arms on either side of her body. I _feel_ her smile as she leans back into my chest.

"Yeah," she sighs. "I can't believe it's tomorrow."

"I know. No going back then," I tell her. Ok, what the fuck? Am I _trying_ to scare her off?

"I'm gonna need a new five-year plan," she continues like she hadn't heard me.

"What?" What plan? We had a five-year plan? Was I supposed to know about this? Oh shit, did she tell me about a plan and I zoned out? Shit, she's gonna kill me…

"I had a five-year plan," she clarifies, but she doesn't sound angry, so she must not've told me. "But now I need a new one. Cody kind of… threw it off track."

"Do we _need_ one?" I ask, lifting one hand to brush the hair off the side of her neck so I can kiss it. She tilts her head with a heavy sigh.

"I don't do well just winging it," she explains. "I need a plan."

"No offense, baby," I whisper against her skin, "but your plans suck, remember? You planned on going to the Sorbonne after high school, and you married some random guy and dropped out. Then you planned on going to Berkeley, and we both know how that turned out. And apparently this five-year plan didn't pan out, either."

"I still need a plan," she tells me, a little breathlessly as I kiss that spot beneath her ear that she loves. "Even if it doesn't work out. I like security." I don't press it, cause I get that. The need for security.

I don't say anything else and we watch the party from the kitchen. Everyone's milling around through the foyer, dining room, living room and kitchen, talking and laughing. I feel like Taylor and I are in a separate world – like we're invisible.

Which I'm totally using as my excuse for what I do next.

I let one hand drop off the counter slowly – no sudden moves, that's the way to go. Taylor doesn't notice, too caught up watching everyone. I settle my hand on her waist, letting it slide down until I reach the hem of her skirt.

She only takes notice when my fingers brush the skin of her inner thigh. She tenses, turning her head slightly to look at me – like she's trying to see if I'm _actually_ doing this.

I so am.

"Ryan!" she scolds, voice a whisper, but she doesn't stop the hand that travels under and up her skirt.

"They can't see," I explain, patting the counter with my other hand, reminding her that it cuts us off at mid-stomach. Plus, no one's even looking our way. She gasps lightly when I brush the tip of my middle finger against the silk covering her. "They're not even paying attention to us."

A bolt of adrenaline shoots through my stomach when I feel how wet she is for me. I mean, fuck, I've barely even _done_ anything to her yet. I press my fingers to her harder and she chokes back a groan.

"Don't," she whispers. "_Please_, Ryan."

I take my hand away with a heavy sigh and she almost crumbles with relief. And now that I think about it, I'm glad she stopped me, because even if she could've kept perfectly silent, there would've been no way no one would've noticed the flush to her cheeks, the sex glaze in her eyes, the smell of _her_ in the air. It's disappointing, yes, but I take slight satisfaction in the knowledge that she couldn't stop me. She could _ask_ me to stop, but she couldn't physically push me away.

Ok, one more time: Seth-like persistence.

"I wanna pay you back for the other day," I explain, making sure to keep my mouth hovering near her ear, just to make her shiver. There's a slight pause as she thinks it through.

"Upstairs," she whispers finally, pushing me back and smoothing down her skirt before walking out from behind the counter. She stops and talks to a few people on the way out, and _fuck_, she's damn good at being stealthy. I wait until she makes it to the foyer and up the stairs before I leave the safety of the counter.

I'm not so good at the stealth, making a beeline for the stairs and sidestepping everyone. No one notices – thank God – and I take the steps two at a time.

She's in the guest room that used to be my old room – just where I knew she'd be.

"We can't have sex," she warns, unnecessarily, because I already know that. I don't bother to answer, instead closing the door behind me and stalking toward her, catching her up in a kiss. She makes some whimpering sound in the back of her throat, letting me push her back to the bed. I break the kiss long enough to grab her hips and toss her back, where she bounces slightly before laying back and spreading her legs for me.

I kneel on the bed, crawling up her body and she whimpers again, hands reaching out to try and fumble with my belt. But I'm the king of self control tonight, and I pull her hands away with a shake of my head. "This is for you," I remind her. I'm not sure _why_ I'm turning her down, but for some reason, both of us getting off at the same time feels like we're breaking the rules. She nods, lets her head drop back against the mattress, spreads her legs further, lets my hand push her skirt up to her hips, arches up as I pull the silk down her legs and toss it off to the side.

I don't have to tell her to keep quiet, she knows, she's a smart girl. I don't have to remind myself I can't tease her like I want to – God, I want to make this last – but I can't because we have to get back to the party.

I lay on my side next to her, covering her mouth with mine and letting my hand continue its work from downstairs – trailing up her thigh, brushing softly against her, swallowing her gaps and moans, letting one finger slide in easily, adding a second, then a third, stretching her wide, thumb circling her clit lazily. She bucks her hips, meeting my rhythm, running her hands up under her shirt to cup her breasts – my hands being otherwise occupied with holding myself up and getting her off.

I pull away for air, nipping gently at her bottom lip before moving to her spot – right below her ear. She gasps sharply as I press my tongue to it, biting the skin, sucking it afterwards. "Don't leave a mark," she gasps, eyes closed, head tilted back. "I can't have a hickey on my wedding day."

I let out a low, rumbling laugh and focus on tonguing the spot rather than biting or sucking. She hums her appreciation as I continue to fuck her, my dick straining obscenely against the zipper of my pants. I am the king of self control tonight.

"God, Ryan," she whispers brokenly as her hips start moving erratically, "oh God, oh Ryan."

"That's it, baby," I murmur, voice rough with lust, "come for me." She nods, mewing as she starts to clench around me. It reminds me how much I want my dick in there – how good she feels. But I am the king of self control.

"Ryan!" she cries, all the muscles in her body tensing and wetness floods against my hand as she orgasms.

She's fucking beautiful.

The silence in the room is broken only by her heavy panting as she comes down. I roll onto my back, slinging one arm across my eyes, breathing heavily myself to calm down a bit. It doesn't really work – especially because I can smell the sex in the air.

"Want me to do you now?" I feel her shift next to me, probably rolling onto her side.

"I'm ok," I tell her, which is a lie and she probably knows that from the way my pants aren't fitting nicely right now, but I don't care. "Go back to the party before people start wondering where we are."

"You sure?" she sounds uncertain and a little disappointed.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

I listen to her movements as she walks around, gathering clothes, stopping off in the bathroom to clean herself up. "I'll see you downstairs," she whispers from the door before leaving.

It takes a while to get myself under control and I wonder why I didn't just jerk off or something. I think I underestimated the time it would take to recover from her.

Either way, I get up – my pants fitting _much_ better now – and wash my hands in the bathroom, splashing some water on my face. Then I go back down, where it looks like no one's noticed I haven't been here for a half an hour.

Except Trey.

He shoots me a _look_, flicking his eyes between me and Taylor and I feel the heat rise in my face. He just grins.

The saddest part is, Seth had no idea I was gone. And even if he _had_ realized it, I'm not sure he'd know _why_ I was gone. Because as much as I hate to admit it – as much as I don't want it to be true – Trey knows me better. Seth may know the new me, but Trey was there for everything. He was there for all the shit I can't ever tell Seth or Taylor or the Cohens – stuff Sandy's only read in my file. I hate that I have a file. And that's the only time I've ever been grateful for the incompetence of the system, cause the shit Sandy read isn't even the half of it.

But Trey knows. And if I was hooked up to one of those lie detector machines and they asked me who I felt was more my brother: Trey or Seth? I'd answer Seth and the machine would beep and tell everyone I lied. Trey has always been and will always be my big brother.

It's like mom and dad. I've tried – I've tried so _fucking_ hard – to call Kirsten and Sandy _mom and dad_. It just never comes out. After all these years, I still call them Kirsten and Sandy, while my biological parents get mom and dad. Even in my head. I can't help it – God knows I've tried.

Blood is thicker than water, right?

Even if the water's better for you; even if the water makes you happier. Blood still knows you better; it pumps in your veins, it reminds you who the fuck you really are. Where you really came from.

Maybe that's why I always got into fights; to try and bleed the _Atwood_ out of me.

* * *

"How're you doin, kid?" Sandy comes up next to me, looping an arm around my shoulders with a grin.

"I'm good," I smile back, eyes tracking Cody on the other side of the room as he talks to Sophie and Matthew. They're both half his age, but he seems quite amused by their antics.

I love that everyone's taken him in without question. They're not making a big deal out of it, they're not trying too hard. Bullit especially's taken a liking to him, talking to the boy for the better part of an hour about cattle. I could see the same fearful wonder on Cody's face that everyone has when they first meet Bullit.

"Good," Sandy hugs me slightly and Kirsten comes up to join us.

"So we were wondering," she starts, leaning on the kitchen counter on my other side, "poor Summer walked down the aisle by herself because her dad couldn't make it." I nod, remembering. "We would have offered this to her, too, if she'd told us about it."

"What?" I'm not sure what they're talking about and they shoot knowing glances at each other before continuing.

"I thought I would offer my services as stand-in father," Sandy explains gently, picking up on the way my eyes go wide. I open my mouth to say something – probably something in the _oh my God, yes!_ category – but nothing comes out. He chuckles lightly. "I'll take that as a 'yes' and a 'thank you'," he guesses and I nod enthusiastically.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch Seth leave the party, heading outside and Ryan follows him out, leaving Trey and Jess alone with Frank. The three look uncomfortable with each other still – like Ryan used to around Frank. Like Ryan still does sometimes around Frank and it strikes me how rare the Cohens are. They're the only people I've ever known that can make anyone automatically comfortable.

Unless they don't like you. That earns you a punch in the face from Sandy Cohen: Public Defender.

But they've accepted Frank now, and I keep hoping that someday, Trey will be able to come out for family functions – maybe Chrismukkah? He's Ryan's brother and I know my own family issues are clouding my judgment, but I want Ryan to have as many people in his life as he can. He deserves it all.

"Excuse me," I duck out from under Sandy's arm and head over to where Kaitlin's standing with her mom.

As long as we're making last-minute wedding party changes…

* * *

"How did this happen?" he sighs as I sit next to him on the porch steps, the sounds from the party drifting out the front door, the light flooding out with it.

"How did what happen?" I don't look at him. It's that nice time – when it's not quite day, but it's not quite night. Where you can still see your hand in front of your face, but you can't make out what's going on down the block.

"This," I see his arms waving, trying to motion _this_. "Us. Being… adults." That gets a laugh from me and I shake my head, because I really don't know. "I mean, we're married."

"I'm not married yet," I remind him, my heart doing that jumpy thing it's been doing all day.

"Whatever. And I'm gonna be having a kid in a month. You're gonna be adopting one. What the hell happened to us?" I smile, because I actually know the answer to that one.

"Summer and Taylor happened to us." He groans, resting one elbow on his knee and propping his chin on his hand.

"It feels like yesterday, we were sitting in the living room playing video games."

"We were just playing two days ago," I remind him, ducking my head over the smile. He huffs in annoyance.

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant."

We sit in silence for a while, watching fireflies blink in and out of existence. I know something's bothering him, but I don't ask. He's Seth. He'll talk eventually.

"Sometimes I feel like it's not real." I nod, waiting for him to continue. I know he will. "Like… like Summer and I aren't really married. Like she's not really pregnant. Like we're still back in high school." I don't say anything. "C'mon man," he whines, hitting his shoulder against mine. "You're getting married tomorrow, I don't know how much time we'll get for Seth/Ryan time anymore."

"Nothing much is gonna change," I try to placate him.

"Yeah, it will. We'll _both_ be married. We'll both have kids." His shoulders slump – _finally, _we're getting to the point. "What if I suck?"

"As a dad?"

"Yeah. What if this kid comes out and I just… freak. Or… or I _don't_ freak, but I'm so horrible with it that it grows up to resent me?" He drops his head into both hands, making some morbid groan.

"Well, I have no doubt your kid'll resent you." His head whips around – horrified – and I start to laugh. "Seth, _relax_. It was a joke. You have Sandy Cohen's DNA. You'll be cheesy and loud and embarrassing and your kid will absolutely love you."

He laughs lightly, shaking his head.

"I heard my name." We both turn halfway to watch Sandy sit on the steps a little behind us. "Who said my name?"

"Guilty," I hold up my hand as Seth and I shift to face him. "I was just telling Seth he'll do fine as a father."

"Well, he has my genes," Sandy explains with a grin.

"But the kid'll have _my_ genes. I was a _horrible_ child," he breathes and Sandy and I start laughing.

"For your next kid, convince Summer to tell you the sex, cause it sounds really weird having you call it 'the kid' and 'it' all the time."

"It _would_ be nice to know if I could teach the kid to throw like me," he admits. "Or, if it's a boy, Ryan can teach him how to throw."

"Sandy?" Kirsten's voice calls from the doorway and we all turn to look at her. "Oops," she smiles. "Looks like I've interrupted guy time."

"Oh horror," Summer drones, moving past her. "Cohen, let's go. It's getting late and I want food."

"We just ate," he protests, but stands up anyway.

"I want corn," she plants her fists on her hips, looking at him like he's an idiot. "Kirsten doesn't have corn. We're stopping by the grocery store to get some."

"Corn," he repeats, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "She loves corn more than me."

"I love driftwood more than you," she throws back, slapping him on the back of the head.

"Summer!" Taylor scolds as she comes out the front door. "That's a terrible thing to say. You at least love him more than _driftwood_."

"Fine, I'll give him above-driftwood status," she relents, moving down the stairs, one hand on her stomach. When she passes Seth he falls into step with her and I watch as her hand slips into his as they make their way to their car.

"By the way," Taylor comes up to sit on the steps behind me and she loops her arms around me, resting her chin on my shoulder. "I made Kaitlin my bridesmaid."

"I only have Seth," I protest, turning to look at her better. She quirks one eyebrow.

"Then you'll have to find someone else. That, or convince Kaitlin to back out." The thought makes me shiver – looks like I need to find another groomsman.

"Hey," we all turn as Trey and Jess come out, his arm around her waist. "I think we're gonna head out."

Taylor and I stand up as Frank, Julie, Bullitt and Katie come out, too. Frank and Trey nod at each other, and I hold out my hand for him to shake. He and Jess move past us – she gives a little wave to everyone – and start out towards their car. Behind me, Taylor coughs into her hand, nudging me a little.

"What?" She sighs heavily, rolls her eyes, coughs, and nudges me again, staring Trey's retreating back. I sigh. "You're meddling again," I monotone at her.

"Not meddling," she protests innocently. "Just… _steering_ you in a more… brotherly love direction."

"You owe me," I tell her, leaning in to get close to her ear. "I'm talking _on-your-knees-calling-me-master-in-a-French-maid-outfit_ owe me."

"Deal," she agrees without hesitation. "Go talk to him."

I give her one last glare before heading out after my brother.

_

* * *

_

review


	14. Day 14

_Um... the wedding, and what everyone's been waiting for since Day One..._

_Enjoy!_

_Oh, and on totally unrelated news, in... two hours and fifty-five minutes, it'll only be a week until my birthday!_

_Music: when I see your face, my eyes just dilate_

* * *

The morning goes by in a blur of people, dresses, make-up, and hairspray. I'm only dimly aware of people trying to talk to me – Summer, Kirsten, Julie, Kaitlin, Seth at one point, Summer again, Kaitlin again, the priest, the caterers, my mother, Dawn, Kirsten once more, Summer again.

I actually don't remember what any of them said.

I don't remember Summer giving me the somethings old, new, borrowed, and blue, even though I can feel them in the little velvet purse. I don't remember getting dressed. I don't remember getting my hair and make-up done. I don't remember anything. I barely remember Summer telling me _it's time_ before leaving the room herself, followed by Kaitlin, and it's not until Sandy takes my arm that I hear the music.

_It's time._

Oh God. I can't do this.

I can't do this.

I can't get married again. I love Ryan, but is love enough? We're so different and marriage makes it _really_ hard to break up. We should've waited longer. Three years wasn't enough time. Oh God, I can't do this. But everyone's looking at me and I'm a complete sucker for peer pressure and Sandy still has a firm grip on me, so I step out into the aisle as everyone rises.

How many people did we invite to this thing? I swear we didn't invite this many. Are there wedding crashers? How am I supposed to get married in front of people I don't even know? And they're all _staring_ at me. What if I look horrible? I can't do this.

Sandy tugs on my arm and I realize I've frozen to the spot. So I move forward, because I don't want to look like an idiot, but I don't really _want_ to move forward, because oh my _God_, I can't do this. I can't-

My eyes find him, standing at the end of the aisle, the priest on one side, Seth and Trey on the other and suddenly everyone else disappears. I mean, sure, I can feel Sandy's grip on my arm and I can vaguely hear the excited whispers, but really all I can see is blue, shining intently at me, watching me walk toward him. He doesn't smile, he doesn't move at all in the time it takes me to move down the aisle, and then Sandy's kissing my cheek and moving off to the side, and Ryan's holding out his hand, and my own goes out to find his.

And it's in the pressure of his hand that I find the ability to hear – to see – again, so I can focus on the priest as he goes through the motions, and I repeat after him, but I don't really know what I'm saying, but I'm assuming since no one started laughing that I did it right, and I hear his rumbling voice repeat those same words, and even though my eyes are locked on the priest, his are locked on _me_, and I wonder how he's coping because if I look at him, I don't think I'd be able to speak.

As it is, I'm surprised I can speak at all with the way he's _staring_ at me.

Is there something on my face? Is there something wrong with my dress? Why won't he stop _staring _at me? I want to tell him to stop, but that's not part of the vows and I can't start spit-balling here, cause that never ends well.

"Taylor," he murmurs, snapping me out of my haze, tugging on my hand to make me face him, and what's going on? It's only then that I realize there's a ring on my finger and he's licking his lips nervously, and is it time to kiss? I don't remember saying _I do_. But I must have, because everyone's waiting. He leans forward and presses his lips to mine.

Holy crap. I'm married.

Again.

At least this time I'm in love with the guy.

* * *

My feet are killing me.

I feel like I've been standing for years – has it really only been a couple hours?

It doesn't matter, though. The pain that these shoes – and really, what idiot decided I should have _new_ shoes for my wedding, anyway? – are causing in no way compares to the ache in my jaw. I think I've been clenching my teeth ever since we got to the reception hall.

"…was so beautiful," the woman talking to Taylor is saying when I make myself snap back into reality. I have no idea who she is, but the way she's gripping Taylor's hand, I'm assuming she's a relative. Grandmother, maybe? I've lost track in the crowds. Hell, I barely remember who half the people _I_ invited were. She pats Taylor's hand one last time before moving off to mingle.

"You doing any better?" I ask lowly, so no one around us can hear. She blushes faintly – embarrassed that she lost her cool during the wedding. Who would've guessed it'd be _me_ not freaking out? I kept expecting to. Seriously, standing there as Summer and Kaitlin came down the aisle with Seth and Trey, I kept _expecting_ to freak out. I didn't, though. _She_ did. She came out – God, she's so beautiful – and her eyes had caught mine and she just looked… _terrified_.

Luckily, I don't think anyone else but me – and maybe Summer – saw it.

"I'm fine now," she grumbles, trying to glare at me, but it doesn't really work. Somehow, I think I could get away with murder today, the way she's looking at me.

"Good," I nod with a smile that melts the almost-glare right off her face. I'm about to say something about slipping out the back door so we can go up to our honeymoon suite, when her eyes focus on something off to the side.

"Incoming," she breathes, standing straighter, hand tightening on mine.

Fantastic.

"Veronica," I greet for the both of us. Despite her outburst the other day, Taylor's still afraid of her mother, so I decide to take the lead. Because she's my _wife_, damnit.

"Taylor," she ignores me completely, pursing her lips together and running her eyes over her daughter. "I'm surprised you had the… _bravado_ to wear white today…"

She can't _seriously_ be calling her daughter a whore on her wedding day…

Out of the corner of my eye I see Taylor look down at her dress with watery eyes, taking her hand away from me and smoothing it over the fabric.

Oh, fuck no.

I feel every muscle in my body go rigid, blood pressure rising, and I can't feel the pain in my feet or my jaw anymore. I can't hear the sounds of the party, all I can focus on is the woman in front of me and the joyful glint in her eyes as her daughter starts to stammer about how Summer said the dress looked good on her. I clench my hands into fists and open my mouth…

"Veronica Townsend," a cold voice says from the left and we all turn.

"Ms. Casetti?"

What the fuck?

She smiles at me, throwing me a look that explains everything. She fucking crashed my wedding. How the fuck did she find out about it anyway?

"Taylor," she continues, coming up next to Veronica to stand in front of us. "You look lovely." Then she turns to Veronica and smiles – that cold, Newport smile. "You must be so proud."

"Of course," Veronica returns, just as politely. "What mother wouldn't be proud the day her daughter marries a felon?"

"Mom…" Taylor's voice wavers a bit, hands still on her stomach, almost protectively.

"A felon?" Ms. Casetti laughs evilly, turning to me. "You never told me that, Atwood."

"Because it's none of your business," I shoot back at her, resisting the urge to grin in the sudden rush of affection for the woman. Because Veronica looks _stunned_ – she probably thought Casetti was here on Taylor's list, from Newport. Not that she was on _my_ list, but still.

"Well, I think it is," she sniffs, but I catch the slight smirk. "I mean, I should know if my architect's unethical and all…"

"I was sixteen," I protest with a mock glare. "And I'm not your architect anymore. You signed the papers. We're done. Thank God."

"Yes, yes," she waves her hands at me with a roll of her eyes. "Have you properly thanked your wife yet for that?"

What?

A look at Taylor shows her blushing, not meeting my eyes. Fuck.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised, what with her habit of going to visit people behind my back. Dad, Trey, now Ms. Casetti.

"I guess I will later," I murmur and Taylor flushes darker. Casetti snorts.

"On that note, I'll leave you two to be happy." She waves her hands at us, walking toward the buffet table.

* * *

"Are you mad at me?" I ask after my mom leaves us – with a few parting, venomous words.

"That you went and talked sense into the woman so I could go on our honeymoon?" he asks, raising an incredulous eyebrow at me. I smile a little as he turns to face me, sliding his arms around my waist and we start to sway to the music. "Have I mentioned," he monotones, "how much I'm looking forward to our honeymoon?"

"Once or twice," I sigh, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Have I told you how beautiful you are?" his voice gets lower and he breathes it in my ear.

I just shake my head and bury my face into his neck. I don't answer, because I'd rather not get into this right now. I want to tell him that he already has me – he doesn't need to do that. I know I'm not _beautiful_. I may be pretty, I may be 'hot' – his word – but I'm not _beautiful_. Summer's _beautiful_. Kaitlin's _beautiful_.

I'm just Taylor Townsend.

I feel him tense up a bit and he draws back, eyes searching mine. Something flickers and he pulls away completely. "Let's get out of here," he grips my wrist and pulls me over to where Sandy and Kirsten are standing with Seth. Summer's off to the side, sitting down to rest and talking to Kaitlin. "We're heading out," he tells his parents, the look in his eyes demanding no argument.

Sandy nods, throwing one arm around his son and clapping him on the back. Kirsten moves forward to hug me tightly, but somehow Ryan manages to not lose my hand in all of it. "I want to thank you," she whispers in my ear as she hugs me. "You make him so happy." She pulls back and smiles at me.

Ryan is – apparently – oblivious to the moment, because his tugs my arm and hauls me out of the room.

* * *

The ride up in the elevator is… well, it's like a fucking fantasy, and I can't help but have Aerosmith in my head as I press her up against the cold metal wall and her hand travels to the front of my pants. It's taking just about every ounce of willpower not to rip her dress off and fuck her here, in the elevator. Either that or come in my pants with the way her hand's working me, the way her tongue feels in my mouth.

I barely hear the _ding_ as the elevator opens, and it closes before we realize we're stopped. So I hit the button and the doors slide open into our suite. I pull her through the little seating area, into the bedroom, swinging her toward the bed. She stops in the middle of the room and turns to face me and there's a breathless pause – like we're both savoring the anticipation.

Until I realize that anticipation is stupid and I want to fuck my wife.

I close the distance between us, crashing my mouth on hers, kissing her roughly, trying to find the goddamn zipper on this goddamn dress while her hands start shoving my clothes off. Except I can't find the _fucking_ zipper, and if I don't get the dress off her soon, I may explode. I may actually explode. So I tear my mouth away from hers, pushing her away. "Zipper," I growl and she nods at me, hands reaching behind her and I hear the satisfying sound of metal grating. My own hands go to my pants, undoing the button and zipper with harsh, precise movements.

Her dress drops to the floor, a pile of white around her while she stands there in this lacy thing, and _fuck_, I feel that Chino part of me take over.

"Fuck," I growl at her, letting my pants and boxers drop, lifting the wife beater over my head and throwing it to the floor as I step toward her, rational thought leaving my head. "Fuck, baby," I hear myself say, but I can't really control my mouth anymore and my hands go to her waist, pushing her backwards until her knees hit the bed and she goes down. "Fuck. I had all these plans…" I mumble, following her down, tugging the straps of her lingerie off her shoulders far enough to expose her breasts, "was gonna fuck you slowly, all nice and romantic…" and she moans in counterpoint as I pull at the lace covering her.

"Ryan," she groans, sliding her hands down to join mine and leading my fingers to the ties at the side, which I pull at until I get that damn white lace off and expose her and _fuck_ I haven't had her in two months, and she's not quite naked yet, but I don't care, I just want to be inside her, feeling her around me, feeling her writhe below me, making her scream my name.

I lean back and run my hand up her thigh, spreading her legs apart. She moans and tilts her hips to me as I slide a finger into her, to see if she's ready for me. She's wet – fuck, she's so wet, I haven't been in there in _twofuckingmonths_ – and I add another finger, stretching her wide, preparing her. She's panting heavily and I'm tempted to make her come – right now, just for the satisfaction of making her scream – but I can't wait. She's ready for me _now_ and I've been ready for her forever, so I pull my fingers out, shifting forward, grabbing her hips and lining up…

It feels like an eternity while I wait, paused at her entrance, staring at her with her head thrown back, eyes closed, just _waiting_ for it, and I wonder why I don't move. It's not like I haven't been waiting for two months for this or anything. But something doesn't feel right, and…

"Look at me."

Her eyes fly open and the second her gaze meets mine I thrust in, hard enough to make us both moan, hard enough to make her throw her head back again, eyes closing as she clenches uncontrollably around me, and it feels amazing – I can't believe I almost forgot how it feels to make her come.

"Ryan!" she cries out, but I don't give her time to recover as I drive into her relentlessly, because I can't help it. I can't help detaching one hand from her hips and falling forward, changing the angle, hitting a new spot inside her that makes her scream brokenly. Distantly I can hear her chanting my name like a prayer, over and over, punctuated by little gasping moans and sharp cries, but it doesn't matter anymore, because she's coming again and she feels unbelievable. I follow her over the edge, heart freezing in my chest as I lose myself in the feel of her, the smell of her, the sound of her, the sight of her.

Of my fucking _wife_.

* * *

I am never – _never_ – waiting two months for this again. For the feeling of him inside me, the heavy weight pressing me down into the mattress, the comfort of him all around me.

I run my hands soothingly over his back, feeling the muscles there shake as he comes down, and I love knowing that I can make him like this. That I can… undo him.

He makes a muffled sound and rolls off to the side, eyes fixing on the ceiling as he tries to regulate his breathing.

"Jesus," he breathes, still staring up at the ceiling. "We're _good_ at that." I look over at him and start to giggle – I think the orgasm's made me a little lightheaded – and he turns his head, looking a little guilty. "Or something a little more romantic?" I don't answer, I just keep giggling as I roll into him, wrapping one arm around his torso and laying my head on his chest.

I can hear him breathing; his heart beating.

He kisses the top of my head, curling his right arm around me, the other lying dormant on the bed next to him.

"I love you," I sigh out, turning my head slightly to press my lips to his chest.

"I love you, too," he whispers back, the words low and shaky. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I turn further, laying my hand flat on his chest and propping my chin on it. "You married me, didn't you?"

It was supposed to be a joke, but he doesn't smile. Instead, he gets that little furrow between his brows, like when he's _really _thinking about something.

"No," he says slowly. "I mean it." Ok, confusion much? "I… I can't really explain it," he seems frustrated with himself, eyes going to the ceiling, mouth a tight line.

"I know," I reassure him, moving up to kiss his jaw and sliding my leg over his hips.

"I feel like… I'm such an idiot," he continues, still staring up at the ceiling. "I can never say it."

"You don't have to," I remind him. I know I made a big fuss over his inability to express his feelings, but… well, I just don't care anymore. We aren't teenagers, going our separate ways in six months. We don't have French ex-husbands hovering around and making me question why Ryan can't say those three stupid words. I was an idiot back then. I was an idiot a couple days ago when I freaked.

But none of it matters anymore. We're married.

"I wish I was better at talking," he goes on, finally looking at me. His hands slide down to my waist as I shift on top of him. "Like, I wanna tell you stuff. I wish I could be that guy who can tell you every day how beautiful you are…"

"Ryan," I shake my head at him. I don't want to get into this now. I just want to have sex. I don't want to feel guilty because he has to lie to me. He frowns.

"I hate your mom," he announces suddenly, eyes narrowing. "We shouldn't've invited her to the wedding."

"She was just trying to cause trouble," I mumble, placing my hands on his chest and sitting up. The hands on my hips help me shift back a little, until I feel him, hardening again. "I barely listen to her anymore."

We both know that's a lie. I listen to every little thing she says. I know I should but… it's just, she's my mom, you know?

"Then why do you get all tense every time I call you beautiful?"

"Ryan, don't," I warn, grinding my hips against him and feeling him harden more under me. "Let's just fuck, ok?"

He nods, licking his lips, his eyes darkening a bit. "Fine, but we're talking about this eventually," he mutters darkly.

"Sex first," I tell him, leaning forward a bit, "talk later." He nods, eyes glazing over as I reach between us to grip him and he groans once before I sink down on him. I sigh happily and close my eyes. Not only did I avoid _that_ little discussion, but I get to have him, too.

The hands on my hips tighten and he pulls me down on top of him. One of his hands slide up to cup the back of my head and the other wraps tightly around my waist. He proceeds to roll us over, so he's on top again. Oh well, it's not like I _mind_.

"Now," he breathes, pulling out slowly and pushing back in, "let's have that talk."

What?

Wait, no fair.

"Ryan," I protest, wrapping my legs high up on his back. "Don't ruin it."

"Too bad. You wanted sex, you're getting sex. And I wanna talk." He pulls out and thrusts back in, keeping his pace torturously slow. "Now," he murmurs, dropping his lips to my neck and kissing the spot below my ear he knows I love, "why do you get all tense every time I call you beautiful?"

He sucks sharply on the spot, which tears the answer from me. "Cause I'm not," I moan, then I cry out as he growls and thrusts in hard. "Ryan." I'm not quite sure whether that's a protest or something, but his hands tighten on my waist.

"You're fucking insane," he whispers, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not even gonna dignify that with a response."

"You asked," I remind him, arching up a little as he starts moving faster. "You _know_ I'm crazy. You shouldn't ever ask what's going on in my head."

"I like your crazy," he tells me, lips dropping to my neck and his hand sliding from my waist to catch under my knee and draw it up.

"You like that I'm a freak," I mutter back, closing my eyes and tilting my head back. He lets out a low, grunting laugh that ends in him taking a deep breath. Apparently he's decided to drop my insecurities for now, because he hooks my leg over his shoulder and plants his forearms on the bed and thrusts hard, tearing a moan from my throat. He bites the junction of my neck and shoulder and does it again. "God, Ryan!"

One of his hands lifts off the bed and moves between our bodies and he rests it on my stomach as his thumb finds my clit. He presses against it in counterpoint with his thrusts, which sends shockwaves through my body. I vaguely feel my fingers dig into his back as he fucks me and I swear he's trying to kill me or something. His mouth on my neck, thumb on my clit, the way he's pounding into me... God, it's too much.

"Oh God! Ryan!" My orgasm rips through me almost painfully - I can barely breathe.

When I come to - did I pass out? - he's still going, but he's slowed down considerably, obviously waiting for me to come back.

"You ready, baby?" he pants. I let out a pathetic whimper as I nod and I _feel_ him grin against my jaw. "Good." He pulls out suddenly, leaving me cold and empty - but it's not for long. "Roll over, baby."

"Ryan..." I sound so pathetic, and I'm actually _shaking_ as I do what he wants. He doesn't let me get up on my hands and knees - which may actually be a good thing, because I don't know if I could hold myself up. Instead, he loops his arm around my waist and lifts me up slightly - I arch my back to help him - and slides in again.

"Fuck," he grunts, dropping his head forward to rest on the back of my neck as he starts to fuck me again.

I grab a pillow and bury my face into it to muffle the noises I'm making. It's too much, I don't think I can handle it - he's hitting a spot inside me that's making me dizzy, making my vision blur. He's pressing kisses to the back of my neck and I can tell he's close from the way he starts pounding into me erratically, the heavy, rasping quality to his breathing.

He thrusts particularly hard and I orgasm again, praying that this time, I don't pass out.

Finally – after an eternity – I come down off my high, just as he's groaning and releasing into me. He doesn't pull out right away, he just rests his weight on his forearms and kisses my neck – the same spot, at the top of my spine. "You know," he mumbles finally. "You still owe me for putting Trey in the wedding."

I giggle breathlessly as he rolls off of me, onto his back. "I don't have the outfit here," I remind him, turning onto my back. "But it's all packed for the honeymoon."

"Good," he nods. I stare up with him and we lapse into silence.

I'm still smiling up at the ceiling when his hand makes its way between my legs again.

"Ryan…" I moan, almost in protest, because _come on_. We _just_ had sex – twice – and I know he's not _that_ hard up to have recovered so quickly.

"You," he whispers, trailing his fingers over my thigh, "have kept this from me for two months." He moves to hover over me, licking his lips and giving me a cocky grin before moving down, placing little kisses as he goes until he reaches his destination. "I'm far from done with you."

Oh.

_Oh_.

_

* * *

_

review

Only one more chapter to go...


	15. Day 15

_Because this is the last chapter, I made it extra long and extra dirty... I hope that's alright with everyone._

_Enjoy!_

_Music: its here I'll rest my chin and breathe her deep and smile… just south of her shoulder and west of her spine_

* * *

My eyes open eventually, slowly, blinking against the sun as it filters through the window pane. The sky outside is unnaturally blue, clouds a perfect white. It's like everything's overdone, drawn with perfect lines and immaculate clarity.

I've never had a religious moment; I'm not one for religion in general. But if I had to define this – this morning, this feeling, this absolute sense of calm – _religious _may come close. It's not exact, it's not precise, but it's as close as I'll come with this flawed language of ours.

I turn my head to the side – the least amount of movement needed. I turn, just far enough to catch the sight of her, lying next to me on her stomach, head turned to the side, facing away from me, hair tumbling over her shoulders, her face, the pillow. It catches my breath in my throat – the light reflecting off the hidden gold in her hair, the pale expanse of her skin, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall as she breathes slowly, still asleep.

I shouldn't.

I shouldn't touch her – it'll ruin her. If I touch her, she'll break – how can she not? She's so fragile.

But I can't help it, and I twist to lay on my side, my hand reaching out, moving toward her, time freezing as my fingers brush her skin and it takes me by surprise – that she's warm. She's warm and alive; the porcelain look had been deceiving.

Maybe she won't break, maybe she won't shatter – so I let my hand flatten, palm down on her back, smoothing over the skin there, fingers tracing her spine, down until the sheets cut her off.

Forcing air into my lungs is hard – not impossible, but hard – especially trying not to make a noise. I don't want to wake her. My lips are dry as I lean forward to press them to the freckle right under her shoulder blade. It's enough – for now – so I lean back, content again with the hand on her spine, the sight of her sleeping.

It's hard to believe I have a wife. Wives are for people who deserve them – good people. People who deserve to be loved.

"Are you watching me?"

"Can't help it."

She twists to look at me over her shoulder with a smile before turning to lie on her back, unashamedly naked against the white sheets. "Good morning, husband," she whispers, still smiling, still perfect.

"Wife," I breathe back at her, the word almost sticking in my throat.

Outside the sky is bright blue, the clouds imperfectly perfect, just like her.

* * *

"I'm gonna take a shower," I tell him, getting up out of bed and making my way to the bathroom. He turns to watch me go, but when he doesn't make any move to follow me – when he doesn't make some monotone comment – I start to get worried. So I pause at the door, looking over my shoulder to where he's staring at me, the expression on his face dazed. "Are you coming?"

He nods, throwing the covers off, moving uncertainly, looking for the world like it had taken my permission to let him know its ok to move. I shake off the feeling and start the shower, making the temperature mild – I'm hoping we'll provide our own heat. I step under the warm spray, only to find him stopped at the door.

"Ryan?"

He looks up, like he's remembering why he came here in the first place and moves to me, stepping into the shower. I smile, almost hesitantly when he doesn't do anything. I'm used to him not _saying_ anything, but usually _me, naked, in the shower_ gets a bigger reaction out of him. And I know he sometimes likes to take his time, look me over before he has his way with me. This is different, though. It's almost like he's… in awe of me.

I've seen Ryan in lust with me. I've seen Ryan in love with me. I've never seen Ryan in _awe_ of me.

"You're freaking me out," I whisper, wishing I could've said something better, something more eloquent, something to deserve awe.

"Sorry." It's an automatic response – I doubt he's aware he even said it. His breath comes in shallow drags, eyes moving over me, taking me in, wide with… surprise? I feel my heart speed up under the scrutiny, hands starting to shake a bit with nerves.

I take my shower and he doesn't touch me once. No offers to help me wash, no move to take me up against the tiled wall. He just stands under the spray and watches me; doesn't react when I soap him down, just watches my hands move over his skin.

And when we're rinsed and dried off, he trails me back into the bedroom like a puppy – stays two feet behind me all the way. When I stop, he stops.

"Ryan." He meets my eyes – still shocked, still in disbelief – and I lean forward to kiss him, trailing my hand down his chest to brush my fingers over him. His breath hitches in his throat, he hardens in my hand, but he doesn't snap out of it. I'd hoped the familiarity of the act would jolt him into awareness, but he doesn't even kiss me back.

What happened to him? Where's the Ryan from last night that was planning to do all sorts of dirty things to me the minute we got married? Where's the Ryan that was calm – at ease? Hell, where's the Ryan that's broody and morose, ducking his head and shrugging all the time?

I bring my hands up to his shoulders and turn us around, pushing at him so he sits, then lays back on the bed. And he does nothing when I straddle his hips. It's not until I move to line us up that he reacts, hands moving at lightspeed to grab my hips, holding me above him – hovering, waiting. He shakes his head _no_ and licks his lips.

"Ryan?" I try to shift out of his grip, try to get him inside me, but he won't let me.

He shakes his head again. "I'll hurt you," he breathes out and it's like he's stuck in limbo – holding me, not letting me sink down on him but not letting me move away, either.

"You won't hurt me," I try to soothe him, but my voice comes out a bit more incredulous than I wanted it to, because really? He's never – _ever_ – hurt me. Well, not physically, at least. He's fucked me every way imaginable, sometimes so hard I could barely walk the next day, and _now_ he's afraid he'll hurt me?

"I'll hurt you," he repeats, voice low and _sure_. Like it's a fact – an inevitability. "Don't wanna break you."

Seriously?

"Ryan," I make my voice calm, soothing, so I don't… I don't know, _scare him_ or something. "Ryan, honey, if you don't fuck me soon, _I'll_ hurt _you_." He blinks, recognition sparking and maybe it's the language I used? His hands loosen around my waist, enough so I can sink down on him and he lets out an audible gasp while I make no sound at all. I think it's the first time in our entire relationship where _I_ was the silent one.

His body reacts – he can't help it, he's only male – hands resting on my waist, hips rising to meet mine, creating that delicious friction I've been craving ever since I woke up.

I think I've been craving this my entire life.

Even when I didn't know him, even when I was too young to know what sex was, I was craving this – _him_ – the comfort he brings, the security, the unconditional love.

"Oh God," I sigh shakily, hoping that I can give him a reality check if I keep talking. "Oh God, Ryan." I make it a point to run my hands over his chest, dragging my nails just hard enough to create little red lines, just hard enough to make his jaw clench and his eyes darken.

"Taylor," he _finally_ says my name, trance shattered, the desperation taking over. "Jesus, Taylor," he rasps brokenly, shaking his head slightly like he doesn't believe this is happening. Except it so is, and I start to ride him harder, keeping my hands planted on his shoulders for leverage. "Oh fuck," he mutters, "oh fuck, oh man, oh fuck," it turns into a chant, low and frantic as he stares down to where we're connected.

"God," I hiss, slamming down on him but not rising up again. Instead I start to roll my hips, grinding against him, closing my eyes to concentrate on the feel of him in me, his hands gripping my hips.

"Oh fuck," he breathes. "Taylor." I open my eyes at his tone, "Taylor… I have to… oh fuck, I'm gonna… fuck…" I still my hips as the realization dawns on me, and he moans desperately, fingers digging into my skin harshly. "Taylor…"

"Yes, Ryan?" I whisper, the look of him making chills go down my spine. He makes a whining noise from the back of his throat. I watch as he tilts his head back, closing his eyes and he's so hot, I decide to take pity on him. He moans loudly when I lift up and sink back down again but he doesn't open his eyes.

He starts to shake, fingers bruising my hips as his muscles spasm, chanting again, "oh fuck, oh God, oh fuck," as he tenses below me, and then he comes and I feel the liquid heat in me and just knowing I made him come makes my own orgasm rip through me.

I fall forward onto him, resting my head in the crook of his neck, breathing heavily, feeling his chest rise and fall below me. That was intense. I know we play our little games and I've been 'in control' a lot, but nothing like that. I've never had that surge of absolute power and maybe it's because I know that it'll be _me_ making him orgasm for the rest of his life, or maybe it's because he'd seemed so helpless before me, but either way it was thrilling.

His arms wrap around me – one around my waist, the other behind my head – and he rolls us over, so he's on top and he starts to whisper in my ear, "I love you… God I love you so much… I'm not good with words… I can't… I want to tell you… stupid language…" and then he trails off and starts kissing his way down my body.

* * *

We make a stop at the Cohens – the cab waiting patiently outside for us, loaded up with all our bags. Somewhere in the trunk is Taylor's luggage but it doesn't freak me out anymore, because she's not leaving me – she's leaving _with_ me. She can't ever leave me again, not with that ring on her finger.

I'll track her across the world if she tries.

"Hey man," Seth greets, pulling me into a hug and it feels weird because I've had Taylor's body pressed up against me all morning. Out of the corner of my eye I see Sandy pull Taylor into a hug and I resist the urge to rip his throat out for touching my wife.

Shit.

"Can I talk to you?" I whisper in my brother's ear before he pulls away and he shoots me a curious look but nods. We head outside onto the porch and I lean against the little wall and stare out into the street.

"What's up?" he rests his elbows on the wall next to mine, mirroring my pose. He's always doing that – it reminds me of how I used to do everything Trey did. I wonder if he went home, or if he's gonna stay and catch up with mom and dad while I'm gone.

"How long does this last?" I ask and he shoots me another odd look. "How long until it actually hits me I'm married?"

He laughs lightly and for the first time since I've met him, he doesn't make some snarky comment. "Remember our conversation two days ago?" he asks, "when I told you I still didn't believe Summer and I were married sometimes?" He runs one hand through his hair with a grimace. "Maybe it doesn't go away. Not completely, at least. You know, maybe we'll always have moments where we forget we're married. Maybe that's why they make people wear rings."

I nod. "And how about the…" I don't want to say it, cause it's embarrassing, but I have to know, "how about the awe?"

He laughs again, a little louder this time, but it still doesn't come off as sarcastic like usual. "Ryan, my brother, if you haven't noticed, I've been in awe of Summer since the fourth grade."

"But," I protest, because I don't think he gets it, "why would she marry _me_?" That just gets another laugh.

"Why would Summer marry me?" he shoots back. "We're idiots, but somehow, they still decided to take pity on us."

"But she _married_ me," I continue, not really processing anything he's saying. "That's like, _permanent_. Is she stupid?"

"She's in love," he explains, "and it's with you, so I'd stop questioning it. Now go, enjoy your honeymoon. That cab bill's gonna be a bitch if you waste anymore time trying to get advice from me."

* * *

"How long does this last?" I ask Summer and Kirsten as we stand in the kitchen. Ryan's disappeared somewhere with Seth and they've been gone for a while. Sandy's in the living room playing with Sophie.

"What?" Summer asks, opening the refrigerator door and trying to see if they have anything good.

"This whole thing where he's… I don't know, not himself?"

Because he's not. The Ryan I know doesn't let himself be bossed around and given orders. He's not docile, he's not whipped – well, maybe a little, but that's beside the point. What I mean is, Ryan's not normally ultra-romantic and though it's all well and good that he spent most of the morning making me orgasm, it was all so… well, I guess I'll have to use the word romantic again. Romantic is fine, I definitely don't mind when he focuses on me, but sometimes all a girl needs is a good hard fucking, and if he keeps up his whole wide-eyed disbelief thing, I'm not sure I'll get that.

"You mean where he gives you looks, like he can't believe you let him touch you?" Summer turns around, jar of pickles in hand.

"Yes!" I let out a relieved sigh.

"He did have that whipped look," Kirsten comments with a lazy smile.

"Please," Summer gripes, "Seth gives me that look all the time."

"Sandy _still_ looks at me like that sometimes," Kirsten adds, eyes flicking out to the living room where he is.

"But he will get better, right?" I ask insistently. "Not that I mind the… _attention_, but I fell in love with broody, monosyllabic Ryan." Kirsten laughs softly but doesn't say anything.

"Hey," his voice is low and hesitant at the entrance to the kitchen and he looks nervous to actually be in the same room as me. "We should probably head out…" I hear his question in there, the silent addition of _only if you want to_.

"That's a great idea, Ryan," I tell him encouragingly, which earns a snort from Summer. She must realize I'm trying positive reinforcement – so he'll start to think on his own again. I watch Seth roll his eyes – apparently even he gets it. Ryan takes no notice, nodding slowly.

"Have fun, honey," Kirsten moves from the counter to hug her son and I see a flash of the old Ryan as he hugs her back. Thank God, at least he's still in there somewhere.

"Try to get fresh air at _some_ point," Sandy adds from the living room with a quirked eyebrow, sending stern looks at Ryan and me.

"_Some_ point," I grin back, linking my arm in Ryan's as I walk us outside.

* * *

"So Cody's staying with Bullit?" she turns her head to me, hand still in mine on the armrest between us. I nod, ignoring the voices in my head.

When did I start getting voices in my head?

One's yelling at me, a constant _holy shit, we're so high up!_ The other's whispering at me, a snarky _why are you touching her?_

"Ryan?"

I look up at her – which has the unfortunate bonus of looking out the window – and she looks… annoyed. "What?"

"I asked you a question," she sighs, sitting back in her seat and staring forward.

"Yeah," I swallow hard and follow her lead – facing forward. Ok, I think I'd rather look out the window than watch _The Family Stone_. "He seems to really like Bullit."

"Bullit really likes him," she tells me, thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "He wants to send Cody to private school," she continues on.

"What?" That tears my eyes away from the horror that is a Sarah Jessica Parker movie to focus on her – not the window – again.

"Yeah," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "He's all but demanding we let him pay for tuition."

"Like hell he is," I grumble, feeling the embarrassment rise. I hate charity.

She pauses for a second. "I think it's too late for that."

"What?"

She sighs again. "Didn't you see what his wedding present to us was?" I shake my head _no_, because – to be honest – I was too focused on getting to the _wedding night_ part of yesterday. "It was a check. He wouldn't take it back, either," she whispers, finally looking at me. "It's… it's a lot, Ryan."

"How much is 'a lot'?" I feel the fear rise up in my throat. I can't take money from him. It doesn't matter that he has too much of it already. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he sleeps on a mattress of money and uses money toilet paper.

"Enough to get us started on saving up for his college, enough to help him through school." She bites her lips and finally meets my eyes. "I think we should take it."

"Why?" I grind out, and suddenly the world's not as bright as it was a couple seconds ago. "We make enough money, we're happy…"

"I know we're happy," she reassures me. "And if we had a _baby_, we'd have years to save up. But Cody's thirteen. He'll be going to college in five years, and there's no way we could afford a private school and still save up for college. I know you hate charity, but if it's what's best for Cody…"

This must be how Sandy felt, I think as I turn to face forward again. At least Bullit won't lord it over me like Caleb did to him.

"Fine," I manage to get out after a while. "But he's not allowed to get us presents for Chrismukkah or birthdays anymore," I warn. She laughs lightly and leans over to kiss my cheek.

"So are you back to normal now?"

Alright, fourth time in ten minutes: "What?"

"You fought back," she gives me a blinding smile. "You're brooding again." I turn slightly to glare at her, but it only serves to make her smile wider. "I'll take that as a 'yes, Taylor, I am back to normal'."

There's a pause as she smiles at me and I fight with anger and annoyance and embarrassment. "You're never gonna let this morning go, are you?"

"Nope," she grins happily. "I can't wait to tell everyone in Greece you're my bitch."

"Taylor," I whine. She giggles again.

"And when we get back, I'll go into your work, and tell everyone how pathetic you were…" she continues, taking _way_ too much delight in torturing me.

"Leave me alone," I mutter sullenly. "I wasn't that pathetic…"

"You kept giving me puppy eyes," she insists. "But I won't tell anyone. I'm not that mean."

Yes, she is, but I trust that she won't tell anyone. Except Summer. I have no doubt Summer will know about it. How… God, _pathetic_ I was this morning.

I was _Seth_.

"But you're really back to normal now?" her voice cuts in quietly, and this time, there's no hint of amusement in there.

"Yeah," I tell her. "I was just a little… overwhelmed this morning."

"Good," she nods resolutely. "Cause if I wanted someone that drippy and romantic and whipped, I'd still be married to Henri-Michel." Her eyes widen in horror as she turns to me.

Looks like she realizes that probably wasn't the best way to get me to relax.

* * *

"Ryan," I trail after him, making my voice whiny and high-pitched. He marches through the hall, shoulders tense. Well, this was a fantastic start to our honeymoon. First he's so in awe that a rich girl from Newport would lower herself to marry some Chino scum – which is bull, cause he's a better person than I'll ever be – and now he's angry and brooding and… being such a _baby_.

He completely shut down after the Henri-Michel comment. It's been seven years since I last saw the French bastard – ok, that's a lie, he stopped by about two years ago to try and win me back, but still. It's been seven years since Henri-Michel has even been a vague threat, and Ryan can't just _let it go_.

I mean, it probably doesn't help that I had to bring up the Bullit/Cody/money thing and damage his fragile male ego right before that. But still. We're in Greece, we're on our honeymoon. What couple starts their honeymoon like this?

Us, apparently.

"Ryan," I try again when we get to the door to our suite. He ignores me and goes inside when the bellhop opens the door for us. The boy shoots me a look – confused. I don't know how much English he speaks, but it's not like he really needs it. Broody silences cross all language barriers. I shrug back, try to smile and thank the man. He piles our luggage in the room then leaves.

And Ryan continues brooding.

Looks like I'll be seeing a lot more sun than I thought.

* * *

She starts unpacking, making sure to sigh a lot as she does.

To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm acting like a dick. It's not really the Henri-Michel thing that's bothering me, cause really? He's not that big of a threat. At least, not since I broke his nose the last time he showed up.

Good times.

Anyway, I think it's more of a wounded pride thing than jealousy.

I want what's best for Cody, but I've spent most of my life dirt poor and people with money still creep me out sometimes. Especially people with so much money that they just hand it out like party favors. It's weird and I can't help but feel like there's some hidden agenda. I know Bullit's a good guy and behind his… eccentricity is a really generous person who cares more about humans and cattle than money. But still. I hate being a charity case.

"I'm going out to the pool," she announces suddenly and I turn to find her in her bathing suit, sunglasses on, giant bag slung over her arm. How long have I been out?

When I don't answer, she frowns, but leaves the room anyway.

Fine, whatever.

I need to make a call.

* * *

Wonderful.

I can just imagine the way my mom will gloat when we get divorced. She'll just give me that _smile_ and she'll tell me how she _told me so_ and how I should've never married a felon in the first place.

Maybe I should call Summer or something. She's always good with advice – even if I rarely take it.

"Excuse me."

I turn and lift my sunglasses to see whoever's talking to me. Some guy with an eager smile on his face.

"I couldn't help but notice," he continues when I don't say anything, "the book you're reading?"

What? Oh, my book. Just some random French poetry I shoved into my bag – just in case. It's not like I thought I'd have _time_ to read. I _thought_ I'd be spending all of my time in bed with Ryan. Or in the shower. Or maybe up against a wall. I didn't think that I'd be spending the first few hours of my honeymoon reading by the pool and listening to some random guy talk.

Oh, crap, he's still talking. How long has he been talking?

"I'm sorry," I interrupt, swinging my legs over the side of the lounge. "But I have to go."

He looks confused, but I ignore that. I did _not_ come to Greece to spend my time talking to another guy.

Back in our suite, he's on the phone – probably with Seth, lamenting about how he made a giant mistake in marrying me. I don't want to hear the conversation, so I head out to the balcony and look out at the ocean.

We're really high up – I forget which floor – so I don't have to worry about Ryan coming out to talk to me. To tell me he wants an annulment or something. He hates heights.

Apparently not enough to stop him, though, because I hear the doors open and his footsteps behind me.

Stupid courage.

With a heavy sigh, he slides his hands around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. We stand there for a while, in silence, because I will _not_ be the first one to talk.

"I'm sorry, baby," he murmurs, finally, pressing a kiss into my neck. "I overreacted a little…"

"A little?"

He ignores that. "It's just… everything's happening so fast. Taking Cody in, getting married, Bullit giving us all this money. You know change makes me jumpy."

It's true. He does tend to shut down when things happen.

* * *

My heart stops beating wildly when she relaxes in my arms. I thought she was gonna tell me to fuck off or something. I don't think I'd blame her. I've been having mood swings like crazy today.

I called Sandy to ask him how he dealt with the whole Caleb/money situation. He asked me why the hell I was calling him when I _should_ be spending time with my new wife.

Then he called me an idiot and hung up.

"Ok, new rule," she tells me, still looking out at the view – which I'm trying to ignore, by the way. "You're not allowed to think about the Cody/Bullit situation for the next two weeks."

"Deal," I agree. It shouldn't be too hard to find something else to focus on.

Like Taylor.

Taylor and her fantastic ass, which is, by the way, looking particularly fine in her white bikini.

I drop a kiss on her shoulder and press my hips forward. She moans happily, tilting her head back to rest on my shoulder and giving me unlimited access to her neck. I suck on the spot below her ear – right next to the bite mark from last night – as she starts to grind her ass into me.

I think we should start a list, of all the things we want to do on our honeymoon. I mean, we've been here for an hour and we're already engaging in public sex. Technically this is public, I think as I take my hand off her waist and slide it between us to unzip my pants. If I can see the people on the ground, then they can see us, even if we're really high up.

I back away from her a little to give myself some room as I stroke myself to full hardness and she bends over further, spreading her legs a bit. Then I push aside the white fabric of her bikini bottom and slide into her.

She sighs, readjusting her grip on the railing as we start to move. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she has absolutely no problem fucking me while people can see us. Actually, judging from how wet she is, I think she gets off on it. The thought makes me grin.

"Taylor," I pull her back against my chest and whisper in her ear. "You wanna put on a show?"

She moans and nods, making me grin wider. We could be discreet if we wanted to – we could act like we're just standing here, I could keep the movement of our hips slow and subtle, keep my hands looped around her waist like we're not doing anything.

I could, but I'm not going to.

I slide my hands up from her hips to cup her breasts as she arches her back and moans. And I resist the urge to take her top off so I can really touch her, but no. I'm ok with people being able to see us fucking, but no one's allowed to see her naked except me.

She twists to kiss me as I run my hands over her body, from her breasts down, going to the apex of her legs to rub her through her bathing suit. She groans into my mouth and her hips start pushing back harder, more insistently.

Fuck this going slow shit. I move my hands to her waist and break away from kissing her as I start to fuck her in earnest. She leans on the railing for support, dropping her head as I let her have it.

"Shit, Ryan," she hisses, hands tightening on the rail as she comes.

I lean forward as I push in deep and bring my mouth close to her ear. "Love you, baby," I whisper roughly as I follow her over the edge.

* * *

The phone rings and he groans in annoyance.

"Ignore it," he mumbles, hand tightening on my waist.

"But what if it's important?" I argue, looking over my shoulder at him. His eyes are dark with lust, hooded and intense. He shakes his head no and never stops the movement of his hips.

We rarely have sex like this – lying on our sides, him taking me from behind, my leg pulled back over his. We only do this when we're too worn out to do any other position. But maybe we should do this more, because I'm _really_ enjoying it. It's lazy and unhurried and I'm pretty sure this is the longest round of sex we've ever had.

I'm not sure how long he's been inside me, rocking his hips into me slowly, arm draped around my waist and lips pressed against the back of my neck. I'm staring at the window and the amazing view of the ocean. It's perfect – except for the stupid ringing.

I lean forward to grab his phone off the nightstand and he growls in protest, but he doesn't stop fucking me. I settle back against his chest and flip the phone open.

"Hello?"

"Taylor," Kirsten sounds confused – she was probably expecting Ryan, considering it's his phone. "Is Ryan there?"

"Ryan's busy right now," I sigh, feeling him laugh and bite my shoulder playfully. "Can I take a message?"

"Well, he called Sandy and I just wanted to make sure everything was ok…" Kirsten explains. I smile.

"Everything's fine," I tell her.

"Good."

She doesn't sound convinced. Maybe I should tell her what we're doing now? Maybe that would convince her. The thought makes me giggle – _don't worry Kirsten, Ryan _was_ freaking out, but he's ok now. Actually, he's currently fucking me from behind – has been for… well I don't know how long, but I've orgasmed twice so far and I think I feel a third one coming._

I'm sure that would go over splendidly.

"I'll have him give you a call when he's done," I tell her, grinning. She probably thinks he's in the shower or something. Au contraire – he's being very dirty.

"Alright," she agrees and I hang up.

"Call Kirsten after you come," I tell him, tossing the phone off somewhere. He groans in protest – whether at me throwing his phone or mentioning Kirsten while he's fucking me, I don't know. I just smile and settle back down, resting my head on the pillow.

The hand draped over my side slides down a little, and he circles my clit with his finger. I take a deep breath, feeling my orgasm build. It's slow – just like this whole session in general – and it builds steadily as his fingers move faster and his hips pump a little harder. He knows I'm ready again.

I bite my lip and cry out, arching out as I come again.

"You're amazing, you know that?" he whispers, stilling his hips and letting me ride my orgasm.

"You are, too," I tell him as I come down. "Are you ready to come yet?"

"Yeah, I think so," he kisses my shoulder again. I nod as he wraps his arms around my waist and rolls onto his back. Time to go a little faster.

I sit up, bracing myself a little as I sway – I guess three orgasms will do that to you. "Ready?" I ask, looking over my shoulder at him. He nods and licks his lips. I lean back a bit and start to ride him, going as fast as I can in my – _very_ – relaxed state.

He groans loudly at the change of pace and position – he always did like reverse cowgirl. It doesn't surprise me that he climaxes soon after – hell, I'm surprised he didn't do it sooner.

What can I say, the boy has stamina.

* * *

She makes me call Kirsten right after, because she promised.

I think it's the most awkward phone call I've ever had – not only because I'd been fucking my wife when she first called, but also because Taylor's walking around our suite completely naked. Every time she passes the doorway, I can't help but stare at her, which makes me lose track of my conversation with Kirsten.

"…started camp today," she says as I snap back to reality. What? "Bullit says he really likes it. Apparently he's already made a friend."

"Good," I manage to get the gist of the conversation. She's talking about Cody. Right before the wedding we signed him up for soccer camp. And in the fall, we're sending him to this nice private school outside of the city, even if that means taking some money from Bullit. Because it's what's best for him.

"So how's married life?" she asks and I can hear her smile through the phone.

"It's… well, I have no complaints so far," I tell her, as diplomatically as I can. To be honest, I don't know what to think of married life, because this isn't life. Constant sex in a hotel room isn't life – it's fantasy. "But I'll let you know when we get back."

"Good," she agrees, apparently proud that I can tell the difference between honeymoon and reality.

A shadow in the doorway draws my attention and I look up to find Taylor leaning against the frame, one eyebrow quirked.

"Kirsten, I gotta go."

I don't wait for her to answer before hanging up.

"We haven't used the couch yet," she tells me simply, before turning and heading out into the lounge area. I get up and follow her out.

Yeah, so far, married life is cool.

_

* * *

_

I'd love to thank everyone who's read, especially those of you who've stuck with me through both this and the original. Thanks so much for all of your reviews and support! I heart you all (even the lurkers).

_review, while I go curl up in a corner and cry. Oh Vegas-verse..._


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